


six guys, a body in a carpet and a blown-to-shit cadillac

by Belfire



Category: Hollywood Undead (Band)
Genre: California, Crimes & Criminals, Danny wanted no part of this, Gang War, Getaway driving, Gun Violence, HU pissing off dangerous people, Lorene Drive just save him, Marijuana, Matt's a cool bro, bodies in carpet rolls, don't take other people's shit, police chases, pre-Danny era, six crazy MCs, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-18 04:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 62,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21505174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belfire/pseuds/Belfire
Summary: “But we didn’t do anything!”“Is that what this looks like?” With a wide sweep of his arm, Jorel indicated to the guns, the speed limit that they were a hundred over, the body in the trunk, the cops and the firefight they initiated. Did Danny not have eyes in that pretty face? This was some bad shit and as the law saw it, they were culpable without reasonable doubt.
Comments: 77
Kudos: 52





	1. just another day in hollywood

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired entirely by the Levitate remix music video and written in three hours, it's kinda part of the series I'm working on just takes place in the past. I don't know where this came from but I love it.

“ _Drive_!” Jorel yelled from the back, winding the window of the Cadillac down with his spare hand, the one that wasn’t holding a gun, and he leaned out far enough to fire the weapon at the car on their tail, hot in pursuit. Pushing 180 through nighttime California, the bullets ricocheted into sparks off the metal, each bang lost to the rushing wind and screech of police sirens, howling after the two vehicles thundering through the streets, one after the other. 

Damn cops. This wasn’t _any_ of their fucking business. 

Accelerator floored for miles now, Dylan took a sharp turn at the next T-junction, narrowed eyes hard in focus on the road ahead, the corner of his lip pinched between his canines. The sudden manoeuvre almost sent Jorel out the window, Matt caught two fistfuls of his army-themed vest and hauled him back in, thudding onto the seat. 

“Fuck!” Jorel cursed when the gun fell from his hand and disappeared somewhere out the window, almost like he nearly did. Masks on, they couldn’t see each other’s expressions but there was stress in Matt’s clear blue eyes and that wasn’t hidden. It was in his gravelly voice too.

“We need to lose the pigs.” He said what they all already knew, shoving a new clip into his gun and fumbling to get the thing in correctly. Curls from his glorious mane plastered to his neck, damp with a nervous sweat that glistened on his skin.

“Don’t forget our fucking tail back there.” Jorel jerked his head towards the other car, the one that initiated this chase through their beloved home city, restless when they were awake. 

“What the fuck is even happening?” The blond to Matt’s left whimpered into the hands he held over his face. That was Danny, _Lorene Drive_ Danny. Jorel did have his sympathies for him here, he didn’t really have anything to do with this, he shouldn’t be mixed up in it at all. This shit just somehow happened and now they were flooring it and firing off shots in a high-speed police chase. Just another day in Hollywood. 

“Take a left!” Johnny ordered, placed in the passenger seat, gaze snapping up from the route map held roughly between his hands, scanning it for shortcuts and alleyways they might escape through. At his word, Dylan veered left, across two lanes of busy traffic that had the palms of other drivers slamming into their horns. The cacophony of noise rose higher than the screams of any audience they’d ever entertained. 

“ _Guys_ , he’s waking up!” Charlie yelled from the trunk, the security cover retracted so they could see and hear him. He was kneeling by the figure of a man, rolled up in a carpet and duck-taped shut at the seams.

“Knock that bitch the fuck _back_ out.” Johnny told Charlie and Charlie complied fast, smacking the man upside the head with the shovel they had back there. The metallic bang and grunt of pain filled the car for only seconds before the wind, sirens, and roaring engine took over again.

“This is crazy. This - _this_ is fucking _crazy_.” Danny kept on repeating in a shaky, anxious mantra, as if reciting it would magically undo the current circumstances and he might find himself in the arms of his own band when he opened his eyes. Not to rain on his parade, but there were two ways this could end and that wasn’t either of them. Danny didn’t have a mask upon his face, though the fact that he was scared would have been obvious even with it.

Matt must be feeling as bad for him as Jorel, the sock-and-buskin masked gentleman leaned over and wrapped a secure, comforting arm around Danny’s shoulders, giving him a single reassuring squeeze.

“We’ll be alright, man, alright? Dyl’s an awesome getaway driver. Never got us caught yet.”

“He’s smoking pot _right now._ ” With a shaking hand, Danny gestured to Dylan, mask rolled up to mid-face so he could blaze a roach while behind the wheel, fingerless gloves covering his white-knuckles. Despite the blunt, it was foolish to assume Dylan didn’t currently have every synapse in his brain riveted into the simple notion of a clean getaway. 

“Just _pull over_.” Danny told them, revealing so well that he didn’t know the nature of this cat-and-mouse game. “Explain this to the cops. They’ll be on our side.”

“ _Eh_ , not gon’ work, blondie.” Matt tipped his head, the side of his face that was a frown leaning nearer to Danny. Uncomfortable, Danny flinched back, pushing deeper into the car door.

“Cops don’ like us here. Those shits’ve been looking for a reason to nail us since our balls dropped.” 

“But we didn’t do anything!” 

“Is that what _this_ looks like?” With a wide sweep of his arm, Jorel indicated to the guns, the speed limit that they were a hundred over, the body in the trunk, the cops and the firefight they initiated. Did Danny not have eyes in that pretty face? This was some bad shit and as the law saw it, they were culpable without reasonable doubt.

Seeing the flaws in his logic, Danny didn’t argue it any further, he continued rubbing ill-at-ease hands together in a fidgety, anxious pattern of movement.

“Don’t worry, mate.” Matt told him, arm yet slung about him despite how clearly Danny didn’t like it there. “If we get booked, we’ll tell ‘em we kidnapped you.” 

“You _did_.”

  
“Details, man. _Details_.”

Something small like a rock hit the exterior of the car, pelting off the metal, but the velocity was far too great to be a simple roadside pebble and the bang that followed the next one was rather telltale.

“They’re fucking _shooting_ at us now?!” Jorel didn’t know why he didn’t expect that yet, seeing as how this shit was a firefight before it took off on four wheels.

“Cops or the other fuckers?” Johnny demanded, glancing over his shoulder but he couldn’t see any details of what was going on behind them. The rear-view mirror on his side was shot out. 

“Dunno.” Jorel replied through his cage of clenched teeth, narrowing his vision at the lights and flashing sirens blurring through the darkness on their heels. The shots kept coming, bouncing off the Cadillac, Dylan began driving in swerving motions, zig-zagging across empty lanes they were _not_ supposed to be in, all to avoid a slug entering the vehicle and damaging something - or someone. 

_Jesus_ , these bitches were relentless. Thirty minutes ago they started this chase and hadn’t gotten tired yet, Dylan would’ve usually outrun any adversary by now but these guys were hellbent to catch up. They got a taste of blood and wouldn’t let go of the trail. The cops already had one of them, _Aron_ , and Hollywood Undead was a man down but that wouldn’t satisfy the authority. Cuffs for everyone before the sun rose.

Gnawing the inside of his cheek to mince, Jorel was worried for his friend, arrested and in an interrogation room for sure by now, they saw him get shoved into a patrol car way back at the warehouses. Even if they got away here, there was still the small matter of getting Aron off the hook. Undead didn’t leave a man behind, they’d figure it out later.

Another shot sounded off but this time, it was met with glass breaking and Charlie screaming, an eruption of hot blood splattering across Jorel and Matt. Alarmed, they checked the back to see Charlie clutching his shoulder, teeth grit, eyes screwed shut tight against the burning pain. Crimson spilt from between his fingers, gushing down his body and staining his grey hoodie in a permanent new colour. 

“Who’s hit?!” Yelling to be heard over the uproar of noise, Johnny wanted to know, urgent, expression set behind his blue butterfly mask. 

“They nailed Charlie!” Matt shouted back, on his knees on the seat, facing the trunk. He pulled Charlie’s bandana to his neck and untied it, rolling the cloth up into a ball and pressing it to the injured man’s wound. He was quick to act, there was no time to waste here.

“Hold it there, Char. Keep pressure on that shit.” 

“I fucking _know_ , _Matthew_. This ain’t my first time being shot.” Charlie spat, irritation born of pain, pushing his crumpled up bandana as close to the gushing puncture as he could, the fabric already becoming logged. The white writing became pink, red pearls rolling down in a steady drip-drip-drip, hitting the rolled-up carpet containing their abduction victim.

Shit, this was bad. _Record bad,_ even for them. Which was saying something.

“Th - they just shot him!” Disbelieving that gun violence was a thing, Danny’s eyes were wide with horror, speckles of Charlie’s blood painting his ashen face like a Bob Ross masterpiece. 

“Get down!” Jorel threw himself over Matt and Danny when another onslaught of lead burst in through the back window, glass raining into the car. They nearly hit Charlie again, he got level with the ground just in time but to make up for that, a bullet struck the edge of Dylan’s mask, ripping the thing from his face, leaving a searing gash across his cheek before the slug went out the windshield. 

“Shit!” Dylan jerked in alarm, the only one who couldn’t duck to avoid bullets when he was driving. That was a _close_ fucking call, his eyes were huge and heart hammering at a million miles per hour. The mask went sailing somewhere near the pedals, a thick crack splitting it in two.

“ _Fuck_ this shit.” Johnny cursed, grabbing the sawed-off shoved near the hand brake and pressing the button that opened the roof window above himself and Dylan. Standing up in his seat, he cocked the firearm and aimed at their pursuers, tense for the throwback when he pulled the trigger. Bang! He shot out their windshield, a hailstorm of glass imploding in much like it did with the Undead Mobile, causing the assholes to swerve and veer off course but that still left the cops. Flooring it, the squad car zoomed by the original chasers and that’s when Johnny saw that three or four more cops had joined the hunt. _Fuck_.

They’d racked up a thousand felonies in this night alone, what’s another to add to that list? Cocking again, Johnny set his sights on the wheels, firing a shot that got near to puncturing the rubber but it was a millisecond off-target; the bullet bounced off the spinning rim. Half out of the skylight, Johnny’s hoodie whipped in the blast of wind, his hood was blown off and his mask was desperately clinging on by the straps. His eyes watered like he was crying, severely impairing his vision, tears getting caught in the air current and ferried away. 

A bullet zipped by him, a shot meant to warn and not kill but if it hit him at this mileage, the shit did they think it would do to him? For every shot he took, they returned seven fold.

“Johnny, get back in!” Jorel shouted, squinting to avoid getting glass in his eyes as he got off of Matt and Danny, sheets of broken window raining from him. He was covered in small cuts, his vest, plaid shirt and jeans torn up in more places than could be counted.

Heeding his demand, Johnny sank down onto his knees, swearing in every profanity he knew at his inability to take out even one of the cops. He quickly settled back in, gripping the sawed-off in his shaking fist.

“... Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores.” When Dylan began praying in Spanish, they should have all known they were royally screwed. Murmuring Ave Maria under a shaking breath, Dylan crossed himself despite not being a religious person, and his hands spun on the wheel to take a turn so sharp it almost flipped them over. A barricade of cops had formed on the road ahead, blocking the path that Johnny instructed to take, Dylan was left with only one option and that was the Marina Road, a direct route to the harbour; AKA a _dead-end_. 

“We _so_ done fo’.” Brow glistening with pearls of sweat and blood, Dylan predicted as the harbour loomed within sight, a maze of shipping containers and warehouses surrounding it. He urged the last burst of speed the Cadillac had in her, driving them toward their capture on an express ticket. 

The worst part was that no one could correct Dylan there, they were as good as in chains at this point. _Fuck_ , this would be Dylan’s third strike, as if the charges wouldn’t be bad enough on their own. And Danny…. What about _Danny_? Unlike the rest of them, he didn’t have a record and didn’t do anything to get the cops breathing down his neck. Would those bastards even believe them that Danny had nothing to do with this shit? 

The wailing of the sirens got closer and closer, the squad cars couldn’t be more than ten meters behind, hot on their heels even as Dylan crashed through a plank barrier intended to be a gate, keeping civilians from the shipping containers, reduced to splintered wood flying sky-high. There was a razor-sharp turn at every other breath, putting a wrench in their speed critically. 

“Stand down or we will shoot!” The copper in the passenger seat screamed through a megaphone, his stern hero face on so close that they could count the rolls of his frown.

“You didn’t _already_?!” Matt yelled back but they couldn’t hear his voice, not while they were tailgating with those big-ass bull bars their ride came with. _Shit-_! The first crash made everyone lurch forward, Charlie too, and he hissed then whimpered, more blood spilling all over the floor and back of the seats. His breaths were trembling.

“ _Switch,_ Char.” Matt told him, grabbing Charlie by his good shoulder and shirt, dragging Charlie into the seats while he awkwardly manoeuvred himself into the trunk with the body. That gun he’d been holding onto earlier, Matt put it to good use, shooting out their broken rear window at the cops’ engine and tires. 

“Eat lead and die, pigs!” He urged the officers in between shots that bounced off the hood. The cops were dicks, they sped up again and hit the bumper, tearing that shit off with this blow.

“ _Whoa_!” Dylan exclaimed, struggling to remain in control of the veering vehicle. They hit several shipping containers, scraping the paint off the Cadillac's sides with ear-raping metal-on-metal screeches. 

“Take them out, Kurlzz!” Johnny barked. 

“Tryin’!” Matt grit his jaw, mastication muscles strained to their tautest, he focused his aim and popped a cap off at the engine; this shot passed through the battered hood, striking something important as steam erupted, blinding the cops in a cloud of haze while their car slowed rapidly.

“Yea, Matty!” Dylan pumped the air with his fist, as if he had forgotten the legion of police officers still hounding them down like a lynch mob. But the car Matt took out blocked the narrow passageway, causing the ones that followed to slam the breaks on or cause a severe collision.

But luck just wouldn’t smile upon them.

A floodlight was blasted onto them from above, followed by the sound of rotor blades chopping up the air.

“They sent a fucking _helicopter_?!” Jorel stared out the smashed window with wide eyes and an agape mouth, fixated by the giant buzzing mechanical bug filling the sky overhead. The floodlight was _blinding_ , he needed to squint to make out the chopper’s outlines.

“I’ve been to orgies where hookers were less fucked than us right now.” Johnny raked a stressed hand through his hair, hair rarely seen from beneath his hood. His mind was racing like Dylan for a loop-hole but the shit could they do now? They were cornered, they could only run around this maze for so long before they hit another wall of uniformed swine.

“Stand down or prepare to take on fire!” A voice boomed from the chopper, modulated through another megaphone that wasn’t heeded, despite the loudness of it.

“Suck my dick!” Johnny aggressively flipped them off, frustration towards their situation beginning to boil over. How were six guys, one body in a carpet and a blown-to-shit car meant to outrun a chopper and six pairs of cops? They were lacking some good ideas here.

“ _Don’t_ touch it.” Danny snapped at Charlie for trying to remove the bloody bandana enough to inspect his wound, which would subsequently undo any clotting that’d managed to take place. The blond put his own hand over the bandana and pressed it down hard, making Charlie gasp in pain, grinding his teeth and shivering. 

He was gonna bleed out unless they got outta here fucking soon, Jorel noted grimly. Danny kept pressure on the wound, surprisingly willing to get his hands bloodied despite being innocent in what they were doing here. Or then he didn’t want second degree homicide added to what they were already facing.

“ _Fuck_.” Dylan slammed the breaks on, some of them nearly went through the windshield, Matt flew on his back, across the dude in the taped-shut carpet. The Cadillac screeched to a halt at the water’s edge, nothing but black ocean stretching out before them, shipping containers boxing them in and police filling the space behind. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to fucking go.

Feeling the noose nearing its closing point, Jorel leaned over the front seats, between Johnny and Dylan, plan B already pushing out from where he shoved it in his brain.

“ _Dylan_ , tell them we had a gun to your head and we forced you to drive-”

“ _Fuck no_ , bro.” Dylan instantly replied, not even considering the possibility of getting off scot-free from this. Undead went down with the ship and all fucking members if need be. Only rats abandoned to swim ashore and he was no rat.

“Don’t be fucking dumb.” Jorel jabbed him in the temple with a rigid index finger. “This’ll be your _third_ strike and you’re _twenty-fucking-two_ , you wanna get locked up for the rest of your goddamn life?”

“I ain’t no pussy ass bitch.” Dylan scowled, dried running blood down his cheek like the paint on Jorel’s mask. “We _all_ lookin’ at time for dis-”

“He’s right, Dylan.” Johnny interjected, seeing that the deck of cards was on display and they were out of tricks up the sleeves. The police were parking outside and some officers were already climbing out, guns held at length and ready to fire. Cautiously, they began approaching, surrounding the Cadillac.

“Fuck you guys. We ain’ done yet.” Dylan swore and before anyone could ask him what he intended, he slammed his foot on the accelerator, sending the car bounding forward with nowhere to go; well, nowhere except straight off the docks. 

“ _Dylan-_!” Some or all of them screamed, horrified for the split second before the engine crashed through the water and after that, it was all survival instincts taking over. The sea flooded in quickly from the broken windows, they sank like a rock through the streaming bubbles into darkening depths. 

The cops were left dumbfounded, not believing what they had just witnessed - the extent that these six crazy men were willing to go to if it meant their freedom remained _theirs_. The helicopter soared overhead, sweeping the water’s disturbed surface with the light but no one swam up as expected.

Fifteen minutes later, down the shoreline, six wet and dark figures dragged themselves onto the rocks between the legs of an arched bridge that hid them from the searchlights. Johnny was hauling the rolled-up carpet after himself while Jorel assisted Charlie, an arm around him, blood half washed out of both their clothing. It was all Charlie’s blood, he was faint from losing so much of it.

Crawling to safety, Dylan shook the water from his hair like a dog, breathing heavily, as they all were. 

"Everyone here?" Straightening from being bent over with his hands on his knees, Johnny asked despite already counting their number in his head to ensure everyone's presence on land.

"Think we're good for now." Speaking over his shoulder, Matt offered Danny a hand up the sharp rocks, which the blond accepted just long enough to be on semi-level ground, then he let go to collapse onto his hands and knees, soaked and sides heaving.

“You guys are fucking _crazy_.” He panted breathlessly.

  
“Chickadee, you don’t know the half of it.” Matt promised him, getting a disconcerted glance from Danny, worried for that ominous note that promised more shit to come. And he wasn’t worried about nothing, this night was far from over. They were on the run for as long as there was someone to chase them, and they’d pissed off a _lot_ of people that night.


	2. little lorene drive danny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, it's me... again.

_“Talk!”_ Barking, the police officer slammed his fists to the surface of the metal table dividing them, the bang contained within the brick walls of this hole of an interrogation room. 

“ _Where_ are they going? Do what you do best and fucking _sing_.”

Aron didn’t. The only indication that he heard the man was his wry, persisting grin, the corner of his lip torn and scabbing over. His left eye was bloodshot, imprinted with the bruising shape of knuckles. His wrists were in cuffs that were too tight not to hurt, the first layer of skin beneath already worn away when he kicked up a fight at the warehouse. The cherry on top was the burn over his ribs, where they tased him for extra assurance, just in case he was secretly some Johnny-scale powerhouse despite his lithe build. If he were, this overweight copper wouldn’t be enjoying unbroken legs.

“ _Who_?” Aron smugly inquired, his arrogance getting under the cop’s skin like bamboo splinters beneath fingernails. He wasn’t here to be cooperative or snitch on his band, even if he knew where they were right now. Which he didn’t, nor did he know their destination but this pig couldn’t read his mind to discover that.

Rolling his eyes, the cop grabbed a stack of case files off the table, mugshots held with paperclips to the covers.

“George Ragan, Jordon Terrell, Jorel Decker, Matthew Busek, Dylan Alvarez….” With each name he listed off, he dropped the case file of that person in front of Aron, as if he needed a mental refresher as to the identities of his childhood friends. 

“And _now…_ ” The cop gave a deep, bothered sigh, out of files, leaning on the table with both hands and relying on it to hold his weight. That was one buff ass table.

“ _Daniel Murillo_. He's got nothing to do with you scumbags, how’d you rope him into this, huh, Erlichman?” 

Honestly, Aron wasn’t even sure at this point. They kind’ve just found themselves behind enemy lines with little Lorene Drive Danny. It may take a while to recount exactly how that happened, it was pretty much a blur since the studio. 

So Aron didn’t answer. Chewing on the inside of his lip, his gaze drifted from the cop to the camera in the top right corner of the ceiling, the red light flickering and lens staring at him like the murky eyeball of an unblinking beast. 

Whether or not he’d be willing to snitch, say he knew where his friends were, that wouldn’t get him off the hook here, he was busted real bad. Jorel and the others had a better shot at outrunning the cops than he did of getting outta this place. 

And Aron was worried about _them._

Dylan was on his second strike, a third meant life, and he was only _twenty-two!_ Granted, no one was that much older but he was _still_ the baby. Keeping him safe was priority.

And then there was _Jorel_ , whose ex-gang lost multiple rival members to the legal system, _dangerous_ men who'd put the sharpened point of a toothbrush in his stomach the first chance they got.

Johnny would end up being a prison gang lord or something, he'd be fine, but Charlie’d go clinically insane if confined to a tiny prison cell. 

And don't even get him on about _Matt_. They'd cut his glorious mane and Aron was certain that would be his downfall, like Rapunzel or that guy Samson from the Old Testament.

_Ridiculous_. Aron should be worried about saving his own ass here, he knew this was bad despite his smugness, but he couldn’t stop stressing over the safety of his friends. When the fuck did he get so soft? 

“You know, I’m _tired_ of you _celebrities_ ,” The cop snapped out of the blue, causing Aron to return his eyes to him and see what he was doing now. He put his hands in the air briefly, then carded one through his thinning hair, the other hooked on his belt, his beer belly spilling over it.

“You think because you’ve got a couple of horny teenage girls getting wet over you, you’re automatically above the law.” 

“If you did your fucking _job,_ to _begin with_ , we wouldn’t be here.” Aron allowed some bite to his tone there, leaning forward as far as the cuffs would allow him to. His eyes narrowed, scowling at the officer whose mouth opened to say more but there was a knock outside the door before he could.

Shooting Aron a warning look, the lardy pig went to open, another policeman leaning through and whispering words into his ear. Whatever he was saying, it made the fat cop’s porn ‘stache tweak up, responding to his oily grin. His gaze interlocked with Aron’s, that expression scared Aron before he knew why it should. _Shit,_ were the others caught? Worse - _shot_? 

“Well then,” The cop clapped his hands together, kicking the door shut behind and smiling as he sauntered back over to the table.

“Seems your friends had a little _accident_. Fucking idiots drove off the breakwater.” The cop seemed way too happy about that but then this might be a dream come true for him. This guy developed a hate boner for them a long, _long_ time ago. By now, they knew Officer Conrad well.

“They’re _dead_?” Aron’s jaw dropped, horror taking over everything that had been feigned smugness before. _Oh no._ No, no, no-

“Unis are dragging the sea but no one came ashore. It ain’t looking good.”

“Wait… so _no_ bodies?” 

“Not yet.”

The light of realisation sparking in his eyes, Aron shook his head, a low chuckle willingly escaping his lips as his smirk respawned. Scowl hardening, Conrad glared daggers at him, hating Aron's sudden change of demeanour.

“The _fuck_ are you laughing at? Your friends are _dead_ , did you not understand that?"

“Let me put this in words _you_ can understand, _pig_ ,” Aron’s slender, tattooed arms slid across the table, closer to Officer Conrad, all the while Aron was grinning like a wolf or snake in the garden. 

“My friends are a special breed of motherfuckers. If you think they're hiding, they're _reloading._ If you think they're _surrendering_ , there's three behind you, pointing guns. And if you think they're _dead_ … oh _bitch,_ they're _coming_ for you.” Giving a humoured noise, Aron pressed his back into the cold metal of the chair, beaming cynically up at Officer Conrad without the fear the man yearned to see so _desperately_.

“And call my lawyer. Tell him it's _that_ time again.”

* * *

Sawed-off in his fist, carpeted body over his shoulder, Johnny walked ahead of his friends, trudging through the ankle-deep sewer water, further into the darkness of California's underground. This was a mainline, it was _big_ , leading out to the ocean then splitting off into smaller forks inland, all through for miles. They were in the city's bloodstream and her life fluid was toxic filth. 

For illumination, they relied solely on the tiny torch attachment on Matt's keychain and it was fucking _useless_. They couldn't see three feet in front. 

Jorel was helping Charlie walk, the maniac was bleeding like a stuck pig, relying on Jorel to be under his arm for support or he couldn't be covering any ground at all. The ruined bandana wasn't really doing a lot to hold the blood anymore, Jorel tore off the sleeve of his own hoodie to use. They couldn't discard the bandana though, cops would have a field day with DNA evidence. 

Dylan was at the very back, speed-walking after with his hand around Danny's bicep, towing him along. They could have let him go already, run off to get on with his own life and forget about tonight, but the blond didn't know the first thing about ditching cops. He'd get caught in three minutes of being out their sight. Danny wasn't even entirely convinced that they _shouldn't_ turn themselves in. _Heck no_. 

Dylan didn't trust their tag-along, not one bit. He'd turn the Undead in to save his own skin the first chance he got, so Dylan wasn't letting Danny out of his sight. Yes, sure, Danny came off as the harmless little sprite but never trust a goddamn blond. 

"You can let go of me, Dylan. I won't go anywhere." Danny tried to weave a lie into truth, struggling to keep up with Dylan's pace, two of his strides amounting to only one of Dylan's.

"Only _friends_ call me Dylan, _ese_." The Hispanic grumbled, unenthusiastic for first name terms. Also, he was sulking because the cops made him drive his prized Cadillac into the bay. His friends were lucky he loved them more than the car, if only just. 

"Then what would you like me to call you?"

"How ‘bout ya don't be naming any names, yeah?" His fingers tightened, burrowing into Danny's bicep forebodingly. He tried to keep the warning glare secreted but Jorel caught it. 

" _Dylan_ , be nice." He scolded. "Danny's not here because he wants to be." 

"Don’ think anyone crawls through a sewer because they _want_ to, J." Dylan rolled his eyes, huffing.

“Don’t talk back to me.” 

“Or _what?”_

_"Gee_ , I hope Aron's doing better than us." Eager to change the topic, Matt said, trying to see the map through the gloom. He was the one with the good sense to grab the map before they bailed on the car, so they could maintain some semblance of navigation. But the paper was drenched and torn nearly down the middle, it bordered on useless, especially when it was this dark. 

Even when wet, Matt's magnificent mane refused to stay down, it bounced around to every step he took. Right now, his hair was bigger than their chances of escape. 

Grinding his jaw with worried thoughts of Aron, Jorel scowled at the dirty water sloshing around his feet, irreversibly ruining his Nikes.

“Probably not. We're free, at least.”

“For _now_.” Johnny unhelpfully interjected, adjusting the carpet dude over his shoulder. He kept checking to make sure everyone was still there and no one fell behind. Charlie remained Johnny's specific concern, the madman wasn't chatting their ears off as normal. Charlie stayed quiet, focusing only on the next step and breathing through the pain.

They needed to get him outta here. 

“ _Historically_ , Jews an’ pigs don’ mix, Aron could prolly pull the race card an' get out that way.” Dylan voiced his ill-considered thoughts and everyone ignored him.

“ _Shit_ , how’re we gonna get Aron outta there?” Jorel asked himself mostly, but if anyone had any prison break ideas, he was open to try. He wasn’t leaving his friend behind bars. Not a chance.

“We'll figure that out once we figure _this_ out.” Johnny responded, ever riveted to rationality. 

“If you can prove to the cops that you didn't do anything, they'll let your Aron go.” Danny said but he didn't know. He really didn't understand that there was no love lost between the Undead and the police. No bargaining pieces.

“We're past that point, Danny-boy.” Jorel murmured, though he wished it could have been so easy. But alas, a certain amount of gunfire later, they were past the point of reason. _Way_ past. Plus those fucks took Aron, so they weren't getting his reasonable side. They were getting his 9mm. 

"Why are we still dragging _him_ with?" Matt motioned to the man in the carpet, lucky enough to get a ride on Johnny's shoulders and not have to trudge through miles of sewage.

"He’s seen too much." Johnny grumbled, once again readjusting the man, starting to show subtle signs of feeling the weight of a grown-ass adult on his back for miles.

"He's been wrapped up in that carpet this whole while."

" _Before_ the carpet."

" _Wait_." Danny halted, hitting a metaphorical brick wall that caused the rest of them to begrudgingly slow to see what he wanted.

"You're gonna _kill_ him?" The candle-light glow of Matt’s penlight revealed Danny’s juvenile shock, as if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind even once. It must’ve, Hollywood Undead had a rep on the streets and the music industry.

“Whatever we do, it’s because we have to.” Johnny vaguely replied, starting off again from the second he was standing still for. When the police were breathing down their necks, a second was a second too long to not be moving. 

“I’m not standin’ by while you crazy motherfuckers _kill_ someone.” Danny persisted, more certainty behind that than all the times he’d called them insane this far.

“An’ you think a small lil’ thing like you can stop us, darling?” Dylan inquired menacingly, hand shooting up to snatch Danny’s face and bring it close to his own. The next lines he spoke were hissed, half an inch from Danny’s ear, lips damn near caressing the lobe of it.

“Tal vez te mate primero, eh, puta?” Say for Danny and the dude in the carpet, they were all aware of Dylan’s most recent ex, Tricia, a busty blond, but the bad blood there wasn’t an excuse anyone was cashing in.

“ _Dylan Alvarez_.” Snapping, Jorel finally broke, no longer able to stand idly by as their band baby threatened and mistreated the only person who didn’t play a guilty part in getting here. Jorel paused to pass a look to Dylan, Charlie weakly slumping against him when he did and he tightened his hold around the injured lunatic. They really didn’t have the time for Dylan acting up.

“Let go of Danny _now_ and go walk over there with Johnny. And think about your behaviour.” Stern, Jorel motioned to the front of the line and no, this wasn’t a question, it was an order. The two and a half years he proudly held over Dylan as well as his role as Johnny’s second was convincing enough, Dylan slouched sulkily over to the blue masked pants-wearer among them. 

Their Hispanic young ‘un muttered profuse curses in Spanish but Charlie was the only other person here who could fluently understand him, and Charlie wasn’t doing so fly. Their resident maniac’s plaid shirt was crusty and red all down the front, fresh pumps of blood escaping now-and-then from the exit wound, an inch from where it would’ve gone through an artery. In some regards, at least, they were lucky. But that didn’t sway urgency. Charlie’s brain remained on only for the bare minimum it took to slowly drag himself through the sewer alongside Jorel, and even that was painstaking.

“We’re under Crestmont.” Matt said, his sock-and-buskin themed mask pushed up atop his head as he stared at the soggy map, penlight in hand.

“... I think.” He added, navigation already not his strong suit, especially not when they were trying to read street names while under those streets. California looked a world different down here, in her gullet. 

“Next manhole and we’re going up.” Johnny stated, already scanning the ceiling for a way out of the claustrophobic darkness. He wasn’t a tight space kinda guy, this place along with every impending threat pushed him on extreme edge. But then, that’s where they all were.

Jorel was beginning to struggle with Charlie, be that because his friend was growing weaker, therefore able to support his own weight less and less, or because it’d been an hour of this already and Jorel himself was getting tired. But he didn’t complain, they all had enough shit on their plates as it was.

“Just a little further, Jordy.” Jorel quietly said to no one but himself and Charlie, not that he was sure the words made it through the slowness of Charlie’s blood-deprived brain. Blinking unevenly, Charlie nodded, swallowing a heavy mouthful of saliva flavoured faintly like copper. His eyes, normally alight with a glint of constant deviance, were lacklustre and dim blue, nearly a shade duller than usual.

Aron was caught, Charlie was bleeding to death, Dylan was sulking and on top of that, they needed to worry about Danny going straight to law enforcement with everything he’d witnessed. Any half-decent citizen with a single morality point would do it. 

This was _not_ their night.

“Let me help.” And speaking of Danny, he drifted close without Jorel hearing him and unbidden, positioned himself under Charlie’s other arm, the one that was hanging limp and bloody at his side. At being moved, Charlie gave a weak little whine but no more, Danny seemed to know how to do this without hurting him more than could be avoided. 

Jorel glanced at Danny and for a moment, their eyes interlocked, doe on doe, mildly suspicious hitting non-nefarious. There was nothing etched onto Danny’s face that betrayed an ulterior motive behind helping, so Jorel let go of the idea that there might be one and nodded a single, silent ‘thanks’. 

“ _Mmh…_ ” Leaning closer to Danny, Charlie inhaled deeply, shakily, managing the smallest smile that was almost unseen. “You smell really good.” 

Danny frowned at Charlie, confused as to how he could make out a single pleasant scent while ankle-deep in sewage. They’d gotten accustomed to it by now but the fumes were very much still there.

“Charlie, I don’t think you should be breathing to your lungs’ extent. Not down here.” Danny advised him but Charlie lacked an eye for reason, as usual. He allowed his head to roll onto Danny’s shoulder and turned his face into it, taking another whiff of the man.

“You smell like strawberry cake.” 

“Don’ fuckin’ ruin cake for me, Terrell. Homie’s fuckin’ warnin’ you once.” Dylan said without turning back to face them, leaving it up in the air whether cake could be ruined via association to the stench of human waste or to Danny, a _blond_ , Dylan’s natural-born enemy since Tricia fucked her boss’ seventeen-year-old son. There were _so_ many issues to unpack there.

“Everyone _shut up.”_ Johnny told them, stopping and staring directly at the roof, where a tunnel travelled up a small distance to the iron cover that kept this world and the surface one apart. He reached out and curled his fingers around the solid metal rung of a ladder that was their way out of here. 

“This way.” He was about to go up but Matt pushed past, taking the first step up the ladder without Johnny being able to even attempt it. 

“Don’t mean to cut in line but that manhole cover weighs a shit ton, you’re not gonna be able to move it with the carpet dude on your shoulders. Sorry, Johnathan.” Matt explained in the brief moment before he climbed up, Johnny didn’t raise an argument because their drummer was correct. He somehow forgot that a single manhole cover could weigh more than two hundred pounds on its own.

“ _C’mon_ , _Kurlzz_.” Matt murmured encouragement to himself, breath strained from effort as he pushed up on the cover with his shoulders and hands. It was like someone was standing on it and making sure the damn thing didn’t budge. Grumbling, Matt adjusted his footing on the rungs, one leg hooked through to ensure he didn’t fall, but if he did, that was a splintered femur for him to wholeheartedly enjoy. 

“Put your back into it, Matt. We don’t got all night.” Johnny reminded him and then Dylan chimed in with even more encouragement to lift the heart.

“Harness the power of yo’ hair!” Their Hispanic called up, palms cupped on either side of his mouth. Matt chose to ignore both of them in favour of pushing the ever-loving fuck outta that cover and an incredible burst of effort later, he felt it shift above him, finally responding to his strength.

“ _Yesss_ , baby,” Matt laughed a little in relief, managing to get the damned thing to move another few inches, scraping across the rough surface of the asphalt. 

“There you go. There you go.” He eased as if talking to a sentient being, slipping his fingers through the narrow gap he made to get a better grip. The cool fresh Los Angeles air flooded in, greeting him as gentle as a kiss on the lips.

Every grunt and heartening word reaching his ears, Dylan frowned up at the tunnel Matt was in.

“Is he havin’ sex up there?” 

“He’s gonna develop eighty different UTIs is he’s having sex in a sewer.” Johnny mused. 

“He’s been inside dirtier things than a sewer.”

“ _Yeah_.” Everything aside, Johnny smirked, humour drier than the Sahara. “Like that trans Korean hooker.” 

“You guys are _such_ ungrateful pricks!” Annoyed, Matt yelled, hearing them just fine despite being up there. Gripping the last rung, he leaned down just far enough to reappear out this side of the tunnel, hair tumbling over his shoulders like a waterfall.

“ _Danny_ \- I did _not_ fuck a trans Korean hooker!” Matt was desperate to get that point across to the only person here who might be in the grey area about whether or not this was a joke.

“I wouldn’t judge you if you did, Matthew.” Danny calmly replied, really not as invested as Matt feared. He had a little more to worry about than Matt’s sex life. “Asian girls are all beautiful.” 

“ _Hurry_ the fuck up, _Matthew.”_ Jorel cut in, his patience smouldering to nothing. Worries about Aron and Charlie consumed him, they needed fucking help, he wasn’t wasting valuable time on these stupid jokes. 

Heeding Jorel, Matt finished opening the cover and they filed out after him, one at a time, Jorel and Danny assisting Charlie though when it came to scaling a ladder, most of the work he had to do himself. It was nothing short of a miracle that Charlie had the strength to do it, he slumped against the nearest alley wall when they were on ground level again. 

“We’re almost there, Charles.” Jorel assured him, wasting no time in being Charlie’s lean-to again. He dragged Charlie off the wall and made him rely on his friend for support again.

“Almost _where_?” Danny dared to ask while Dylan was within hand’s reach of him. The Hispanic scowled at him like Danny’s right to speak had been revoked. 

“A friend’s.” Johnny responded, striding ahead to cautiously peer out of the alley’s opening, into the street outside. It was dark, it was quiet, but in the distance, they could make out the unmistakable sounds of sirens. Cops were sweeping the city for them.

“We can lay low with him for tonight. He’s got a chop-shop a couple of blocks down.” Johnny went on, checking both ways before carefully venturing out, gesturing for the others to follow. He kept to the shadows along the building walls, having a body in a carpet under his arm in plain sight wasn’t discreet, to say the least.

“A… a _chop-shop_?” Danny raised his brows, a no-longer surprised expression on his face. Why was he even asking anymore? Any offence he could name, there was a good chance they were directly involved or knew somebody who was. 

“The less you know, man. Trust me, it’s safer.” Matt nudged Danny in the ribs with his elbow, falling into stride with him. They were fast friends, which was odd, Matt didn’t normally go out of his way to make friends. Or then he saw the necessity to have Danny as an ally instead of an enemy in this. With what he already knew, Danny could get them all in orange jumpsuits for the foreseeable future, if he so chose.

If only Dylan could understand Matt’s logic, he was casting Danny dirty looks anytime there was a chance their eyes may meet. Blond didn’t immediately mean back-stabbing wasted opportunity for cradle death, someone needed to spell it out for the Hispanic. 

Fifteen minutes of slinking through the shadows and ducking out of sight when a cop car went by, the Undead (ft. Danny) found themselves outside of a garage tucked between two large, decrepit buildings on the bad side of town. The windows were cracked and dark, there was a back garden filled with broken, dismantled cars and surrounded by a chain-link fence. A dog was barking somewhere, its yaps lost to the echo. Upon first glance, anyone could tell shady shit went down here.

There was a back door, Johnny knew the way, he lead it and instead of knocking, he smashed the window, opening the handle from the inside. Glass cracked underfoot as they crept in, shutting themselves into a lightless breakroom with a worn-out couch and kitchen cabinet that's doors were hanging on just barely.

“Wait here.” Jorel said, sitting Charlie on the couch and going for dishcloths to use as gauze. Water was a bonus, antiseptic, cotton, rubbing alcohol, fucking _iodine_ , anything he could use. Matt went to his aid, searching the draws.

“Is your friend not home?” Danny tipped his head towards Johnny, confused as to why it was so quiet. 

  
“Oh, he’s here. The bastard’s just hiding.” Dropping the carpet, Johnny promised, sure of that, not fearing the silence as he stepped into the office connected to the breakroom by a doorway. For some reason, Danny was following him like a lost puppy, maybe he just felt safer in Johnny’s shadow than alone with the madmen. And to think Johnny was no sane human himself. 

They didn’t get two feet into the office before they heard the cock of a shotgun from the far corner. At the desk, a man was sitting in the dark, his boots on the table, leaning back in his chair with a firearm pointed at them. Through the gloom, Danny saw the faint colour red circling the man’s neck, a bandana or scarf or something. 

“... It’s all over the news,” The man said in a low, dangerous voice, his aim never wavering from the straight line to Johnny’s chest. With the shotgun in the man’s hands, Johnny didn’t try approaching him despite being confident he wouldn’t get hurt if he did.

“ _Apparently_ , in _one_ night alone, six masked men burned down a warehouse, abducted a drug dealer, shot up a squad of cops, broke every traffic law in existence then drove off the marina. That's fucking _impressive.”_ Slowly, the man uncrossed his legs, took his dirty boots off the desk and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees but he could still shoot them under the table.

The closer he came, the more of him could be told apart from the dark. The box of moonlight beneath the window revealed plenty; he had blue eyes, black spiky emo hair, his left arm covered by a sleeve tattoo, and around his throat, a bandana similar to Charlie's, just the colour blood. 

“... What the fuck have you morons done now?” The gunslinging emo asked, finally lowering the weapon, if with noticeable hesitancy. His suspicious eyes narrowed, mild distrust among so many other things that were difficult to name. 

“We’ll explain later, I promise.” Johnny sighed tiredly, motioning over his shoulder to the blond lingering at his side. 

  
“This is Danny. Danny, meet _Jeff_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I fully acknowledge that Jeff runs a perfectly respectable business in real life but some things are just sweeter if you imagine a chop-shop ran by a bandana-wearing emo with a gun, don't you think? Also, boys, you're covered in cuts, you've been crawling around a sewer, y'all are gonna get sepsis.


	3. shady jeff

“Explain this to me.” A low, vexed sigh followed Jeff’s question, warily he motioned to them with the loaded shotgun he was no longer using as a threat.

“It’s kind’ve a long story.” Jorel said, pulling the last stitch through the ragged partings of Charlie’s wound. It’d finally clotted enough to sew shut and given that all they had to use was dental floss and a sewing needle, Jorel’s handiwork wasn’t too shabby, in his own opinion. The puncture had been disinfected twice, cleaned up, and it _wasn't_ pretty, all bruised and swollen, but Charlie's death risk was reduced to the point where they could breathe easy. Or _easier._

Leaning into the couch, Charlie drowsily blew through the weed Dylan gave him for the pain, his baked brain numbed to it by now. Dully, he studied the broken cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, blowing the occasional smoke ring. 

“Better be a good one too, taking how Shady can now be charged for harbouring fugitives.” Jeff sat on the armrest, swinging his leg over the side. Jorel glanced at his former bandmate, his bangs hid his left eye but both were riveted on him while Jeff slowly, methodically, rolled his lip ring with his tongue. Jesus, was he always this intimidating? Slender, _small_ , emo Jeff, _intimidating? What?_ The gun might be helping.

“One of yous bubble guppies best start talkin’, _nowish._ ” Jeff quietly said, quiet but promising to jump to extremer measures for the information he was due. That wasn’t something they were allowed to deny him, considering Jeff hadn’t called the authorities yet, they owed him an explanation.

“ _Fine_.” Blowing his cheeks out, Jorel sighed. His posture slackened somewhat, muscles growing too tired to hold the tension anymore. 

“But I’m busy here so someone else relate it. Honestly, I don't even fucking _remember_ all of it." He followed that up with biting through the dental floss and tying up the loose end. Holding the blunt in parted lips, Charlie stared at him, puzzled.

“How fucking sharp are your teeth, Jay?”

“Very sharp.”

Harshly, Jeff cleared his throat, drawing attention back to himself and the topic that held his intrigue. He leaned against the wall, impatiently bouncing his leg, waving his gun towards Johnny.

“Speak, _Johnathan_. The fuck went down between point A and point B?” 

Running his butterfly tattooed hand across his face, Johnny couldn’t help but sigh when recalling it, but he didn't internalise it any longer. Jeff might start shooting people if he chose to. 

“Yesterday morning, we were working at the studio…”

* * *

“California, give me love, get buzzed, let’s get-”

“Yo, guys, I _got_ it!” Charlie burst into the recording room, ignoring the red blinking light outside that let everyone know not to come in. The door crashed into the wall but the shock of sound was somehow quieter than the manager's irritated scoff. He punched the pause button on the control pad in front of him, freezing the recording equipment on the other side of the glass divider. 

Aron's hands slid over his headphones and slowly removed them, dishevelling his hair. Now that Charlie was here, all hope of recording his lines was lost. So Aron stood alone in the soundproof room, surrounded by microphones, watching through the glass as their madman went up to their manager. It seemed that by Charlie's excitement, he didn't notice the manager's displeased expression.

Smiling brightly, Charlie was explaining something to Marcus that Aron couldn't hear but you didn't need hearing to tell this was a one-sided conversation. Through Charlie's insistent brick wall of chatter, Marcus didn't get a word in, the man merely looked unamused, crossing his arms, shifting his stance. 

_Frequently,_ Aron felt bad for Marcus. The fact that he had to work through Charlie's constant interruptions was enough to drive a lesser man to insanity. 

But not Marcus. He stared warily at Charlie, heard him out, then when the lunatic was done talking five solid minutes later, Marcus took him by the shoulders, exchanged three words and walked him back into the hallway. When Marcus came back, he was pinching the bridge of his nose between his index and thumb, he didn’t look up when showing Aron five fingers. 

Nodding quietly, Aron put the headphones away and let himself out through the control room for a break that neither he nor the sound engineer needed, but Marcus did. That was _only_ their twelfth time in one hour trying to record the song. It might be easier if they had the whole studio to themselves but due to budgeting reasons, they were sharing with a couple of other bands today. Fall Out Boy was somewhere down the hall, if Aron recalled correctly, and next door they had… _Loraine_ Drive? _Lorene?_ Some alternative rock group never to cross his mind again.

“What did you want?” Aron asked unenergetically, fully knowing Charlie was waiting behind the door before he even opened it. Sure enough, there he was, fidgeting in excitement, smiling up at Aron with stars in his eyes, clearly dying to tell him whatever he told Marcus.

“It - it _just_ came to me!” He exclaimed, throwing his arms aside, revealing the small Sony recorder in his hand. “Outta the blue! No prep, no thought, nada! It - it’s like Apollo or Bragi just said ‘Charlie, here, take this’ and - and-”

_“Slow down.”_ Aron grabbed Charlie’s shoulders much like Marcus just did, holding him still against his demented shivers and vibrating. Aron hadn’t ever seen his bandmate so excited, not even when on a bath salts high with the band baby.

“What have you got?” 

“Our _newest_ fucking hit.” Charlie shoved the recorder on the end of his trembling arm into Aron’s face. “Our _best_ song this year - maybe _ever._ Just free-styled the whole thing, it’s so fucking lit! Came totally outta nowhere! The others will love it, the fans will love it - _I_ love it!” 

Slowly waving Charlie’s hand aside, Aron raised his brows a fraction, giving his most disinterested expression.

“Huh.” It’s not that he didn’t care or doubted Charlie’s confidence, he was fully aware that whatever Charlie put to paper was straight-up bars of fire. Their recent record sales proved it. Charlie just needed to bring it down a little so they could discuss this without all the yelling outside of rooms people were tryna make music in. 

Respecting other folks at the workplace and all that jazz. 

“Well, stop screaming and let’s talk about it over coffee.” Aron said, slinging his arm around Charlie, partly as a show of affection, _mostly_ to make sure he didn’t go bother anyone else with his joyous news. 

“Okay, but _first,”_ Charlie braked at his locker on the way to the kitchen, quickly turning his combination into the dial and cracking it open. Inside, he had a scruffy black backpack containing a couple of personal effects he needed on hand.

“I’ma put this baby where she’s safe. I don’t trust anyone but you guys to hear it.” Kissing the recorder for good luck, Charlie tucked it into the safety of the backpack. Probably a good idea _because_ \- not to accuse anyone of plagiarism - in this industry, they couldn’t risk fresh melodies or lyrics overheard. If the wrong person heard that, they might have a hard time proving whose the original idea was. 

And if the song was as great as Charlie believed, then they wanted to keep their hands on it.

Alas, they found their bandmates in the common area with the built-in kitchen, sitting around the coffee table. Other than them, no one else was here but that was okay, they alone made enough noise to voice a nation. Laughter and chatter could be heard outside the room.

Tongue poking out the side of his mouth, Matt played cards with Johnny, poker, but they were gambling over pizza slices instead of coin. Figures Johnny would win. No one was dumb enough to come between that man and his pizza… except for Matt, of course. 

In the corner of the couch, Dylan worked on his fifth Capri Sun while flipping through the pages of a Smurfs comic from ‘98. He was engrossed and probably way too high to realise it was upside down. And then beside him, was Jorel, engaging in a YouTube comment section war over animal rights or veganism, or any of the usual things he stood for. His expression was furious, his typing even more so. Sometimes his semi-automatic lyric spitting skills manifested into texting, so whoever was on the other end of the fight was getting slaughtered.

“Don’t write another diss track on some idiot on YouTube.” Aron told him, plunking himself down on the couch beside his friend, resting his arm on the back of it. Lightly, he flicked Jorel on the temple as a bid for his attention.

“We don’t get paid for that shit.” 

When Jorel’s gaze snapped up from his phone screen, his eyes were burning with indignancy and pumped for a fight that wasn’t happening in real life. Adrenaline was full-on spiking through his bloodstream right now.

“This _son-of-a-crack-whore_ is tryna convince me fish ain’t meat! Like - have you _ever_ heard something so fucking retarded in your life? It was _alive_ , it _died_ , then you stripped the flesh off its bones and _gorged_ yourself on its fucking carcass!” Watching him raise his voice and vent his rage, Aron nodded in understanding, humming plenty of ‘uh-huhs’ in-between whatever lines he could be heard. This happened a lot, it was code to let Jorel rant for as long as his lungs allowed then interject heartfelt agreements towards his cause.

It was basically written in the metaphorical ‘How to Undead’ guide. 

“- A fish _bleeds,_ it _breathes,_ if it’s not fucking _meat_ , then what the hell is it? _Fruit?_ And - _here’s a fun fact_ \- the shit you eat off a fruit’s called meat too!”

“Uh-huh. Oh yes.” Aron continued nodding, holding his most severe expression as he opened the bag of chips leaning on Dylan and helped himself to a handful. He needed to time his swallows and mouthfuls to Jorel’s breathless gasps, which is when he’d input another ‘uh-huh’ or ‘mmh’. 

He was a good friend who supported his brother’s passions by listening to him ranting about fish meat. 

And then in the middle of it, the poker games and fish rants, the Smurfs comics and gambling over pizza, Charlie hopped up onto the coffee table, the dirty soles of his Nikes taking up space where the cards were stacked and the pizza boxes sat half empty.

“Friends, bros, hermanos, lend me your ears!”

Johnny’s attention was stolen away by Charlie plagiarising lines from Shakespeare, he looked up from kicking Matt’s ass at this game and hoarding pizza into a large pile beside him. Hawaiian, pepperoni, deep dish, Neapolitan, he had enough for a buffet but truthfully, it was only enough for today. 

“What do you want, Charlie?” Johnny asked, taking this time to shuffle his cards then leer at Matt when he tried to steal a peek of them. 

“I was gettin' some peanuts from the vending machine and - and this _beat_ just started drumming in my head. Like _na, na, na, na,”_ Charlie snapped a rhythm with his fingers to demonstrate a poor man's version of what he heard in his mind. 

“And _then_ , the lyrics - _oh man_ , the _lyrics!_ It's God whispering his divine secrets to me ‘cause it'll be a massive hit! It all just came to me like _that_ ! I've never had chords, lines, riffs, and the whole thing come to me at once! I think… I think this is my _legacy.”_ He finished with an excited tremble, the stars that sparkled in his eyes putting to shame the lights of any nighttime city. His demeanour was contagious, his friends couldn't help but smile a little, lightheartedness brought on by Charlie's adorable enthusiasm.

Even Jorel managed to stop ranting about fish for a moment.

“Sounds lit, homie.” Dylan said. “Show us!”

“ _Later._ Don't want anyone overhearing-”

_"Oh my God_ , that was so fucking _sweet_ ! You _killed_ the riff, Lyle!" Laughing, some blond doe-eyed fuckboy waltzed in, holding another man in a brotherly half-hug and fondly ruffling his hair. Enter a group of five men none of them knew but vaguely recognised as the band they'd seen once or twice. _Lorene Drive,_ in the flesh. 

" _Me_?" The guy, Lyle, raised disbelieving brows as he laughed it off, playfully punching doe-eyes in the arm. "You're the one with the voice that gives angels orgasms." 

"You jerk angels off with yo’ voice?" Dylan invited himself into their conversation unbidden, and he garnered confused, slightly awkward glances from Lorene Drive. Their bubble bursting could nearly be heard, maybe they hadn’t realised someone else was here.

"Uhm… no. Not literally." Doe-eyes rubbed his upper arm, tongue quickly tracing his bottom lip as he looked away. Was he… _blushing?_ Lordy, where did they make 'em this precious? 

" _Metaphorically_ then? Dang, that's a hella mental image ri’ there." 

" _Dylan_." Jorel elbowed him in the ribs.

"Don't be _modest,_ Daniel." Lyle threw his arm around doe-eyes’ shoulders and practically yanked him into his side, making his friend stumble but Lyle didn't notice.

"Our Danny-boy would blow your fucking brains out, he’s _that_ good." 

_"Hell yeah,_ he is!" Another exclaimed, heartily patting doe-eye - _Danny_ , between his shoulder blades. Danny resembled the unwilling plaything being tugged at by two dogs.

" _Guys_ , I'm _not_ , you're exaggerating." Sheepish, Danny's cheeks were flushed with pink, like the most torturous thing anyone ever did to him was offer praise. He quickly shot Hollywood Undead a look coupled by a small awkward smile that bordered on apologetic.

"They're - they’re exaggerating."

"Oh I bet." Dylan smirked, his tone unusually malicious as he looped an arm around Aron beside him. "And our guy is better than you." His snide remark took Danny off-guard but the blond didn't move to defend himself.

"Of - of course, he is. I mean, he's Aron Erlichman. He's _Deuce._ I could never compete.”

"And he's _better_ than you." 

Dylan's bandmates all turned to slowly stare at him, confused as to where this clear disdain for Lorene Drive birthed from. Or was it _specifically_ Danny? 

"I - I'm sure." Danny nodded rapidly. "I mean - I mean, I _know_ that." 

" _Dylan_ , stop being a dick." Johnny leaned across the coffee table to slap Dylan upside the head, and deservedly so. What the hell prick switch did Danny being in his orbit flip? 

"Sorry about him." Jorel sincerely apologised, putting it into the back of his mind to scold Dylan later, when they didn't have an audience. Along with Aron, he got off the couch and went to introduce themselves as polite, respectful people tended to do.

"Hi, I'm Jorel." He said, taking the hand of the guy who looked like he was going to shiv Dylan behind the building later. But regardless of his intentions, the man gave Jorel a little grip when shaking his hand.

"Kris. Pleasure." It probably was before Dylan insulted their lead singer. And by their expressions, that was a no-go, unless someone wanted to die. Who knows, someone may still.

The rest of Hollywood Undead came to make introductions and swap names, except Dylan, he stayed on the couch, giving Danny a strange, unsettling look no one had ever seen before. 

"So is this your first album?" Johnny asked when everyone was done saying hi and they settled back around the coffee table, HU on one couch and Lorene Drive on the other. Johnny felt the call to be friendly and make small talk after what Dylan just said. People's feelings weren't normally his top concern but neither was being a fucking prick to someone who obviously didn't deserve it.

"Yeah." Kris nodded. "We've finally got enough money to rent a recording room." 

" _Sweet_." Matt smiled, still feeling the lingering awkwardness over what happened just now. 

"Yeah. Lyle's rich uncle pegged it - which is really sad, but he left our guy a pretty nice sum of cash." Kris went on and Lyle chimed in.

"And I couldn't think of a better way to spend it than with my ohana." He threw his arms around his friends and pulled them into a hug where they were all pretty much squished together. They all seemed so fond of each other. 

Maybe the conversation was going to go on but Lyle got a buzz on his phone and he went to take the call in the hallway, apologising as he excused himself. 

"So, uh," Kris motioned to the Undead with his forefinger. "What's with the masks?" 

"The better to commit crimes in." Rubbing his hands together, Charlie smiled in a devious manner. He looked like a scheming cartoon wizard.

"Masks look scary." Matt shrugged. Everyone had their own version of the mask story.

"Are we allowed to see you without them?" Danny inquired, worried that wasn't the case and they'd committed a wrong by coming here, laying eyes upon unmasked Undead. 

"You're seeing us now, aren't you?" Jorel asked, leaning back into the couch, unable to help the small, entertained smile. Danny was sweet. He liked Danny. 

* * *

"So that's how it started, huh?" Thoughtfully, Jeff turned the ring piercing his bottom lip, blue eyes half-closed, surveying the floor through his lashes. He considered what Johnny relayed, considered all of it. He ran with the Undead long enough to know something like this wasn't out of the realm of possibilities. It was typical, actually.

"Yes, pretty much. There's more but we'll fill you in later." Johnny told him, all of them lacking the hours to go through and detail the entire damn thing. 

"And somewhere between Charlie's new song and now, you pissed off a drug cartel and the cops, got a bounty on your head, got shot at, nearly drowned, and then crawled through a sewer to Shady's door?"

"And the fuzz arrested Aron." Dylan added, heaven forbid they forget that. 

Jeff smirked. Clearly, that information nugget pleased him but he didn't make a comment about it. Jorel appreciated that. Truly. 

"I told them to turn themselves in." Danny quietly imputed, standing safe with Johnny in between him and Dylan. Johnny was purposefully placed there, just in case their young ‘un tried anything again. Danny made Dylan inexcusably volatile, had since the moment Lorene Drive stepped into the break room and they needed to deal with that, later.

"That's a horrible idea, Daniel." Jeff told him without even thinking about it, thus wrecking all hope Danny had of there being a single member of this ragtag who wasn't completely insane. The blond's shoulders slumped visibly with the realisation, he gazed out of the window at the wrecked car cemetery outside and asked himself how this happened. 

"What's the plan then, guys?" Jeff leaned back against the wall again, both hands on his shotgun but no longer threatening to use it on them. His cool, intelligent gaze travelled over them, waiting and then it hit them that he really expected them to know what the next move was. 

… Shit, they were dumb. _So_ fucking dumb. Up until now, it was all running from drug dealers and cops and not getting _shot_ , there hadn't been a spare moment to consider step two. 

Their silence rang heavy and long, realising they didn't know what came next, Jeff tipped his head back far, his irritated sigh a testament to his vocal capabilities. 

"Oh _fuck_ . You're leading the cops to Shady's garage and you don't even have a _plan_?" 

"Uh… _We don’t."_ Johnny admitted carefully, hesitantly, but if Jeff just gave them a second to think, they'd have some kind of an idea about step two. Not that Johnny knew where to begin.

_"Fuck_ you guys. You’re tryna get me in jail with you?" Annoyed, Jeff shot up from the couch and shouldered past Johnny, hiding himself away in his office to go over it once again why he left this band. He had a right to be pissed, given how he could now be arrested too.

"Jeff, _wait_." Jorel went after him, leaving the rest to stand awkwardly in the gloomy break room that smelled of trace amounts of mold and now blood. 

"That'll leave an awesome scar." Dylan commented, sitting himself down beside Charlie on the couch. Tiredly, Charlie nodded, too worn out to even say that he agreed. Well, he was shot not three hours ago and lost one-fourth of his blood, small wonder he wasn't rolling with energy. Lethargically, he pulled his shirt back on to cover the stitch work and ugly wound, but the fabric was damp and bloody. Disheartened, he quietly sighed.

"Uhm, _Johnny_?" Danny touched Johnny on the back, Johnny turned to see what he wanted, eyes falling upon a confused blond who stared at his own red fingertips, red when he withdrew them from the other man.

"... Where did that blood come from?" Johnny demanded, rapid, despite already having a foreboding inkling of an idea. Quickly, panicky, he reached over his shoulder and felt the wet patch between his shoulder blades, all down his back really. How the fuck hadn't he realised that he was covered in blood? And he wasn't hurt so… everyone's eyes travelled to the rolled-up carpet discarded onto the floor, pierced by three bullets that were difficult to see in the dark. They must have gone in during the car chase and it took until now for anyone to notice. No surprise the drug dealer had stayed so quiet, so long

  
"... _Shit_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dylan being a dick is the hardest thing ever to write. And fear not, we get more backstory later. Not right now, but later.


	4. latin pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the inspiration, the inspiration, it just rushes to my open arms.

_~~ (fourteen hours ago) ~~ _

Moodily, Dylan dragged cigarette smoke into his lungs and watched it drift and disappear into the sky when he released it. He came out here, into the alley behind the studio, to get away from his band chatting up Lorene Drive like they’d remember those losers tomorrow.  _ So _ annoying. 

And because, like the existential demands of his dumbass life, there was no escaping the latest bane of his existence, it didn't take twenty minutes for the door to swing open and for someone to join Dylan in his solitude. 

"Uhm, sorry to bother you, but have you seen Lyle?" Danny. It was that damn Danny, standing by the door and looking to Dylan with those big fucking doe-eyes just  _ brimming _ with honest intent. Dylan hated his eyes, they displayed such sincerity and he didn't trust people who were easily readable. It just meant they were good at hiding their other side. Plus, he was blond so another minus point.

Dylan’s Latin pride abled him to stand firm in his carefully constructed belief system.

“Don't know who that is.” Dylan lied, he didn't want Danny to think he cared about his silly little band enough to catch their names. Hoping to send a 'fuck off' vibe, Dylan turned his face away, taking another deep drag from the smouldering cigarette. 

But God damn all, Danny was just as dumb as any blond because the message hit a mile off.

“The guy who was with me and the others just now. Light brunet, blue eyes, kinda long hair - not as long as yours, though.” He added that last part quickly, as if Dylan would be insulted this Lyle fool might have longer hair than he. Newsflash, he didn't care.

“I said  _ no.” _ Dylan scowled at Danny from the corner of his field of vision, questioning what about his demeanour screamed ‘come talk to me’. 

Quietly, Danny exhaled, his shoulders slumping a fraction. Maybe the message finally went through, he turned and he wasn't about to keep chasing an angle that wouldn't be caught. 

"Thanks anyway, Dylan." How did this freak know his name? Dylan didn't disclose it, as he recalled. But never mind, Danny disappeared back into the building, leaving Dylan to enjoy his alone time for a whole thirty seconds before another sudden sound went off. Around the corner, a crash exploded into the air, grabbing Dylan's attention without asking. It was followed by talking, angry talking, like the one-sided pre-phase before an argument broke free. 

Scuffing his cigarette out on the heel of his shoe, Dylan's natural instinct to never mind his own business took over at once. Without a single thought, he crept closer to the corner, towards the origin of the mysterious noise. Curiosity was a base trait to his character, if something happened and he didn't immediately understand it, he was inclined to change that. 

Keeping to the shadows, Dylan pressed his body flat against the alley wall, remaining out of sight for the two men he could now see. A big fella, standing over a man who was picking himself off the ground, a cut under his eye shaped like the signet ring the other sported on his balled hand. To Dylan's utmost surprise, he recognised the person on the floor. Light brunet, blue eyes, kinda long hair… Lyle. The very same Lyle that Danny was looking for at this moment.  _ What? _

Frowning, Dylan’s his lips drew into a line that expressed his confusion, not exactly sure what he was looking at when the big guy snatched something that fell when he socked Danny's friend. It was a rucksack or other kind of bag, worn and only half full, black in colour. 

"Next time I give you a fucking deadline, I expect you to meet it." He swore at Lyle, his rough voice laden heavy with menace. Shakily, Lyle nodded, body propped up on his elbows against the wet asphalt. A ribbon of blood rolled down from his nose, leaving a stain on his upper lip. 

"It - it was a mistake, Ross. Won't happen again." Lyle promised without making eye contact. He was deathly afraid of this Ross character, that was a given. 

"Better not. Or I'll skin your fucking friends, starting with that blond with the angel's voice." Leaving his threat and embedding it deeply, Ross spat at the guitarist before he took off, the backpack hanging from the fist that was in Lyle's face not long ago. 

Dylan ducked behind the big green dumpster as Ross stormed by, just narrowly avoiding being seen. He really didn't want anything to do with whatever this was, even if it was a curious spectacle. 

And Dylan  _ knew it. _ He fucking knew Lorene Drive wasn’t as innocent as they seemed. No one was just apologies, awkward smiles, blond tangles and sweet chocolatey eyes.  _ No one.  _

After he was sure Ross was gone, Dylan took himself back in-doors, really not caring if Lyle saw him or not. He was too busy trying to make head-or-tail of what he just witnessed to pay mind to such minor things. Should he tell his friends? … No, given his Danny-bias, they probably wouldn’t believe him about this. 

Mulling it over, he didn’t get as far as the common space before a shrill scream hit his ears like a freight train, high and emasculate but easily recognisable.  _ Charlie. _ Shit, that sounded like genuine distress.  _ Panic. _

All his thoughts rewired to a new subject, Dylan broke into a jog, hurrying in the direction of the scream, scared the maniac hurt himself. When he got there, Jorel, Aron, Johnny, and Matt were already in attendance, standing around a frantic Charlie as he stared into the empty abyss of his locker. 

“It's  _ gone! _ It - it's gone!”

* * *

"We wouldn't be here if we had any other choice." Jorel tried to appeal to Jeff's reasonable side but he might as well be attempting to convince Charlie they weren't living in a simulation. The cause was lost before it began.

"That doesn't change the fact that you're gon’ get Shady screwed too." Distracted, Jeff muttered, loading his shotgun like he was preparing for war head-on. In practised, fluid movement, he placed three shells into the barrel and cocked it sharply. What he intended to do with it, Jorel didn't want to imagine. 

The emo started pacing the office, restless, unable to sit still. Jorel got it as inwardly, he was in exactly the same place. 

"The cops are already tryna take me down. They sit outside my place,  _ waiting. Always _ waiting." Stopping half a foot from Jorel, Jeff pointed a rigid finger towards the window facing the empty street. The lights had been turned off, dawn was finally creeping around to end this awful night.

"You don't get it, reform school. They sit. They wait. They're looking for a slip up and then  _ bam! _ Shady’s countin’ days in orange." 

Jorel must admit, it was unsettling how Jeff referred to himself in the third person and not even by his legal name, but that didn't direct away from his very valid point. Jeff ran an illegal chop shop, stealing cars, stripping them for parts, selling them on, if the cops had any idea of that, they'd be following him like a curse. And yet Jeff remained their sole option. 

Exhaling, Jorel lightly placed his hands on his former bandmate’s shoulders, curling his fingers around them.

"Look, let us stay for a couple hours, just until we've recharged a bit, then we're gone, ‘kay?  _ Gone. _ If we get caught, we won't name you. They'll never know you helped us out." Jorel swore by that. With Aron already in lock-up and no clear way to free him, he was going to do everything in his power to keep another member of the Undead from following suit. 

"I don't… I don't know…" Jeff glanced away, a stressed-out tongue tracing his bottom lip and the ring piercing it.

"They  _ shot _ Jordon. They nearly  _ killed _ him, he lost a lotta blood, he needs to rest. Don't throw him out,  _ please. _ I know you care about Charlie -  _ about us _ ." Jorel's dark eyes were ablaze with sincerity that Jeff could only meet for a few seconds before looking in another direction again. Emotion made him uncomfortable, Jorel knew that full well and decided to weaponize it.

" _ Manipulation _ , reform school? That’s not very Christian of you." Worked up, Jeff tapped his fingers against his thigh, blowing his cheeks out huffily but Jorel knew he already won this one. No matter how icy cold Jeff acted, he had a heart in there, under all that carbonite.

"Jor- _ EL!! _ " Johnny hollered for him from the other room, he sounded anything but calm, he practically forced Jorel to abandon what he was doing to speed walk right back in there, Jeff close on his heels. 

In the breakroom, Johnny and Danny unravelled the drug dealer from the carpet, its material stained with a far darker colour than Jorel remembered. There was a powerful coppery stench in the air, thick like a brick wall. It was then that he realised shit just got fifty times worse as… the drug dealer's chest was pierced by a trio of slugs; he was  _ dead.  _

"...  _ Fuck!" _ Jorel's fingers rushed through his hair, he stumbled back the small distance into the doorframe behind him.  _ Shit. _ Shit, now what?!

"There's a  _ dead fucking body _ in Shady's garage?!" Jeff's shock was almost as hard-hitting as Jorel's, he pressed on his temples with his palms, squeezing his skull like a vice, nearly making his eyes bulge out.

"Fuck  _ all _ of you!" The emo with the gun exclaimed, probably thinking they knowingly brought a corpse into his house. And it took a while for them to be able to convince him otherwise, that they, honest to God, didn’t know Ross was dead when they came in. If they had, maybe they wouldn’t’ve dragged a corpse around for five miles through a sewer. That would cause Johnny displeasure for some time to come. 

The members of Hollywood Undead debated loudly over what they should do now, regarding the police, the drug dealers, Aron in jail, the body on the floor, and Danny watched it unravelled from a silent spot in the corner of the room. As usual, he was nothing but a voiceless spectator, keeping his presence virtually unrealised but this time, he didn’t think it could go on like that. 

Everyone was panicking, but to him, it was obvious what needed to be done next. The police wouldn’t give them any credit for not personally murdering Ross, they’d book it as first-degree homicide regardless of what happened, so as Danny saw it, Ross needed to not exist. In any sense of the word. No body, no crime, right? Whatever he could chip off the list of charges coming their way would be beneficial in the long run.

So while they argued, Danny went unnoticed when gripping the body by the ankles and slowly dragging it across the floor, through the door to Jeff’s office then the bathroom behind it. Ross’s blood was mostly soaked up by the carpet and Johnny’s clothes, there wasn’t much of a trail left behind to incriminate them by.

The bathroom was dimly lit even with the flickering yellow lights turned on but there was a bathtub and shower, sufficient for his purpose. 

Shit, Ross was heavy, Danny realised upon the instant he tried to heft the dead man over the side, into the tub. He didn't understand how Johnny carried him so long without breaking his spine or complaining once.

Teeth grit, Danny couldn't help the grunt of effort, he put all his back into the task but couldn't get more than half of the guy in.

"... What are you doing?" Having snuck up, Matt was standing at the door, staring at him in confusion, as if this was the most out of place thing that could be happening right now. 

"Help me get him in. We need to dissolve him."

"Di -  _ what?" _ Matt's jaws parted, his eyes grew almost bigger than his hair. What, was this  _ really _ so surprising? Necessity made everything unsurprising.

" _ Dissolve _ ." Danny corrected, mildly irritated that Matt wasn't getting how time-sensitive this was. A couple of hours after death, the body began to bloat and it was a rapid descent after that. They didn't have a lot of time. And the drummer wasn't raising a finger in the way of helping.

"Shady's got everything we need in his garage to cook up hydrofluoric acid, it melts bone and muscle. After that, we can wash him down the drain." Danny finished that by hoisting the legs over the side with the rest of Ross, making a loud thud that was bound to be heard by at least one person in the other room.

"I'm… Afraid of you, Danny." Matt confessed, very unsure how he should process Danny's knowledge of body disposal and overall willingness to do it.

"Why? This is just basic chemistry." Straightening, Danny dusted himself off when he was done loading Ross up, all with no help from Matt. Haphazardly, the blond wiped streaks of clotted blood off his hands and onto his thighs. His wispy bangs were in his face, half over his eyes and deeply furrowed brow. How his expression changed when he set to purpose on a task. Cute little Danny didn't exist, now it was just 'let's get shit done' Danny.

"If you wanna speed this up, get me a wash bucket to make the acid in." 

Nodding, Matt went off to do just that, slightly afraid to disobey. Who knew what other secret and sketchy things Danny knew how to do? So Jeff wasn't the shadiest person in this place after all, despite his name.

* * *

_ "One thing. _ I told you to do  _ one _ thing;  _ don't _ . Get.  _ Arrested _ ." Marcus the manager enunciated every word like Aron didn't understand it, but given the situation, it was a fair assumption that he didn't get the memo on the first time. 

"It was an accident." Aron murmured, intently studying the silvery chains of the cuffs circling his bruised wrists. He hadn't left this interrogation room for six hours, it was just a little more bearable now that Officer Conrad was gone and Marcus was here. 

"An  _ accident _ ?  _ Jesus, _ Aron." Sighing, Marcus raked a vexed hand through his hair, hair that wasn't so grey before he met the Undead. At five AM, he got a call from the police department, saying they had one of his in holding and out of habit, he expected it to be Charlie, or Dylan. Maybe Matt, at the very least, but certainly not Aron. And definitely not without Jorel, his partner-in-crime, a literal description now.

"You're supposed to be  _ responsible." _ Marcus hit the tabletop with the flat of his hand, frustration brimming over. With all the shit he shouldered for these people, they decided to pull  _ this _ now? The ashamed look Aron donned didn't even soften the blow. He expected fucking more.  _ Better. _

"And you have  _ no _ idea where the rest are? Johnny and Jorel? Charlie and Matt?" 

"... You forgot Danny." Aron quietly added, knowing he shouldn't have even before he did. 

_ "Danny? _ As in  _ Danny Murillo?"  _

Aron nodded, keeping the movement small enough to require little effort. He couldn't help the guilt, partly over Danny's involvement, partly because this just gave Marcus a worse headache to deal with. He was already developing a stress ulcer thanks to them.

"... I could fucking  _ strangle _ you.  _ All _ of you." Working his jaw, Marcus swore, so much anger in his eyes that it was unfathomable. But it wasn't anger towards them, per se, more how he coped with this growing sense of helplessness. Aron felt helpless too, he was done, he knew it, and soon, his friends might be too. 

"Do you realise Lorene Drive can  _ sue _ us now? We don't need  _ that _ as well." 

"Lorene Drive is why we're here!" Aron couldn't hold back the exclamation, he stood bolt upright, his chair scraping back against the floor. Sure, Danny was innocent but Lorene Drive sure as fuck wasn't. Especially not that one piece of shit,  _ Lyle Tilo Reust. _ If they crossed paths again, he was dead. 

Marcus raised a brow, regarding Aron severely yet overlooking his outburst.

"What do you mean? What did Lorene Drive do?" 

Giving a small, worn-out exhale, Aron sat back down, realising that again, he said too much. Dammit, why couldn't he keep his mouth shut? Officer Conrad wouldn't even know his friends weren't dead if he hadn't been overtaken by the urge to brag about it. 

"I'm not supposed to say anything." Aron massaged his temples with his fingertips, closing his eyes for a couple of moments where he could almost forget where he was and why.

"Fuck that." Marcus reached across the table and placed his hand over Aron's shoulder. "If Lorene Drive did something, you tell me. That's an  _ order. _ I won't let you take the fall for something you didn't do." 

Momentarily, Aron allowed his gaze to flit elsewhere across the room, considering options he didn't have, but the weight of Marcus's hand on him was a reminder of the gravity he was getting crushed by. Silence wasn't getting him off the hook but he didn't see how spilling could either.

But what did he have to lose?

"There's this guy…" Slowly, Aron returned his attention to his manager, a weary look upon his face. Both their faces.

"Lyle Reust. He-"

“ - Just got off the line with Judge Jefferson." The door swung open and a man came in without caring to knock, his briefcase and paperwork his least heavy burden to carry. His expression was one of constant stress and worry over what his clients did, and the Undead put him through more than most, but no lawyer had held on through every wringer like Carlyle did. Maybe it was the money, maybe it was something more. Like a dare from his colleagues.

"Bail starts at three grand." Carlyle said, always in a rush and it was heard in his voice.

"I'll post it." Marcus nodded, accepting the information calmly but he should have known that wasn't all Carlyle had to say. Behind his half-moon glasses, his eyes conveyed another shit storm to come. His hand never left the door handle, he clutched it as if it were an emotional support animal 

_ "What?" _ Marcus demanded, catching the concern of his fellow ‘keep the Undead out of trouble’ colleague. They routinely had their work cut out for them but this was on a whole other bullshit level.

"They…" Carlyle shifted his stance, swallowing in reluctance to speak and solidify what he knew as real-world consequences. But he needed to, so taking a breath, he manned up and gave them a strictly professional look that he managed to cut emotion out of.

"... This case has a lot of attention from the higher-ups at the PD. If the acting officers can't wrap it up quickly, it won't look good in the eyes of their superiors. They want this short and sweet, no press, so if they can't find Ragan, Decker, Terrell and Busek, they'll… they'll pin it all on Aron.  _ Every crime, _ never mind if you and your band didn't do it." 

_ "What?!" _ Marcus scream-demanded, shooting up from his chair, eyes blown wide in outrage and indignancy. Aron felt pretty much the same but he didn't have nearly enough energy to express it. Groaning in hopeless defeat, he lowered his head into his hands and dug nails into his scalp. 

" _ However, _ there is a silver lining." Carlyle went on, clasping his hands in front of himself. Despite what he was saying, he wasn't screaming with enthusiasm. 

"If you cooperate and tell the police the location of your friends, I can get you a suspended sentence." 

Marcus tipped his head far back, scoffing, sighing, hands gripping his hair by chunks and trying to pull it out at the strands. That was no kind of a deal, no way Aron would ever take it. Even if he was telling the truth about not knowing where the others were, no way in hell he would ever trade them for himself. Well, maybe he might consider it if it was just Johnny, Charlie and Matt, but Aron was loyal to Jorel to a fault. It would be his downfall. Heck, maybe it already was. 

But Aron would take a death sentence before he took a plea deal.

"I  _ don't. _ Know. Where they are." Aron lifted his head from the cradle of his fingers, exasperated, his back to a wall and a knife to his throat. He hated that he couldn't do anything. He hated feeling this  _ powerless. _

"If you did, would you tell the police?" Marcus asked, already fully aware of what the answer would be. Pursing his lips, Aron leaned in closer than he needed to, speaking low, as if the place was bugged.

_ "Hell no." _

"Well, then I don't know what to tell you." Marcus leaned back, putting his palms up as a testament to how tied they were right now. He didn't know what to do to help Aron or any of them at this point. He could bend over backwards and they'd still be the ones getting fucked.

"Other than you're  _ screwed." _

Blowing his cheeks out, Aron nodded knowingly, looking away. The wall was interesting today. So interesting. So much more interesting than the fact that he knew he was in deep shit.

“My guys are  _ innocent.” _ Marcus pressed, glaring at Carlyle head-on like he was the gargantuan enemy. “Do _ something. _ What can we do? There has to be  _ something.” _

“I think…” Aron spoke quietly, giving voice to his thoughts before Carlyle could say a thing that inevitably wouldn’t hold an ounce of value.

“... We need to find Lyle Reust and get a confession.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody's fucked thanks to a guy named Lyle.


	5. the fair side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forewarning, this is... graphic. If you don't like blood, I recommend you skip. Involves getting rid of a body.

“There’s a phone booth ‘round the block.”

“I still can’t believe you don’t have a fucking cell phone.” Johnny rolled his eyes, Jeff walking alongside him down the street, abandoned while people slept in their houses. Mist blanketed the ground, settling over the scenes of their crimes for a little while until it lifted. It was so quiet, every step echoed, flashing sirens weren't screaming any longer, the search had moved too far to be heard. 

“... Too risky.” Low, Jeff muttered, adjusting his hands in his pockets. His back was arched into an uncomfortable-looking slouch but even if he were of a straight posture, his head wouldn’t reach Johnny’s shoulder. He was  _ so _ small yet there was something distinctly intimidating about him, even with the shotgun staying behind at his shop. 

“CIA, NSA, FBI, they’re always listenin’.  _ Spyin’. _ And Shady’s conversations are  _ only _ Shady’s.” 

“... Right.” Jesus, Johnny forgot that everyone from Hollywood Undead had their signature brand of madness. Charlie lived his life in a spinning world of chaos that’s reach was confined to the walls of his skull, Dylan saw a person’s hair colour as a valid reason to hate their guts, and Jeff was a raging conspiracy nut. 

But if he wanted to believe that the government were lizard people, they faked the moon landing and JFK was an inside job, sure. More power to him. 

As the phone booth loomed within the near distance, Johnny adjusted the hood that hid his face, uncomfortable with being out in public while dawn was creeping over the horizon. Yes, he'd worn his mask earlier and it was taken off now, but could someone still recognise him? So far, there was no media coverage for this thing, civilians probably wouldn't know him but that didn't go for any cops that might be cruising around. He needed to be careful. So,  _ so _ careful.

All valid paranoia aside, it was paramount to get in contact with Marcus. By now, he’d have the scoop on what was going on and possibly be able to help them track down the fucking snake who started this. 

With Ross dead, Lyle was the last person who could corroborate their story.

Johnny trusted Marcus, the guy wouldn’t turn them in, he was rooted onto their side and right now, they needed help from the outside. If nothing else, they might discover details about Aron’s predicament. The heat was turned high, the cops were grilling Aron for sure, Johnny needed to know what the pigs knew. The way this shit worked, they’d look for a scapegoat and not the real culprit. Hollywood Undead were on their own, law enforcement was a joke at a third grader’s birthday party. 

“Keep it snappy.” Jeff commanded, lingering outside to stand guard while Johnny went into the booth, searching his pockets for a couple of quarters to feed the machine. He rolled three coins into the slot and punched Marcus’s mobile number into the keypad, praying he had his phone on him. 

Taking a calming breath that equalled crossed fingers, Johnny held the receiver to his ear and couldn’t help but realise how loud the ringing was. Was it always this loud? He hadn’t noticed until this point. 

Maybe God was real, maybe he was listening out for a prayer at that moment because Johnny didn’t have to wait long for the other end to be picked up. Their manager sounded vexed, tired, stressed out of his brain, all to be expected.

_ “Hello, who's this-” _

“Marcus, it’s Johnny _.  _ I don’t gotta lotta time, I need you to-” Johnny’s sentence was interrupted by the harsh screech of tires burning rubber around the corner at breakneck speed. A red Volvo with bullet holes piercing the sides, the car he recognised from the night before, it veered into view, speeding for them as the crow flies. It wasn’t slowing down, it sped up when it saw them.

It took Johnny all of half a second to realise what was going on, he dropped the phone to run out of the booth, just as the back window rolled down and the muzzle of an automatic rifle stuck out. 

“Jeff, get down!” Roughly, Johnny grabbed his companion and threw them lengthwise across the pavement, a beat before bullets exploded overhead, the rattling eating up every other sound there may have been. Empty casings showered over them like rain, tens of them, each one intended to strike meat and blood. 

It didn't last long, ten seconds maybe, and then the car roared past, disappearing around the next bend. Lifting his head to stare after it, eyes blown wide, Johnny didn't know if his heartbeat drummed louder than the weight of his panting, he was just incredibly aware that his vitals were off the charts. What the  _ fuck? _

Jeff was the same, under Johnny's arm, Johnny felt his racing pulse through his ribs, going haywire against his bicep. It took a couple blinks before Jeff remembered to breathe, and even then, it was extremely unsteady. On his back on the wet street, Jeff stared at the sky with wide, startled eyes, his brain lagging to process what just happened. Thankfully, Johnny was quicker to restart; he glanced towards the phone booth, the damn thing was shot full of holes and busted, it was no use and they needed to get outta here.

“We gotta move.  _ Now.” _ He said urgently, pushing off Jeff and dragging the smaller man onto his feet, a hand wrapped around his wrist to tow him along. He began jogging towards the nearest alleyway, getting out of sight was essential, just in case those guys came back to check if the job was done. 

How the fuck did he and Jeff just survive that? Had he been any slower to act, they'd be riddled with bloody holes and dying on the spot. The notion quickly turned Johnny's jog into a run, even when Jeff could hardly keep up with his strides as it was.

But that didn't stop the looney opinions from coming.

_ “See? _ Shady told you the government's rigged the lines. They don't want us communicating.”

“ _ What? Jeff, _ those were the  _ drug dealers  _ Ross and Lyle ran with.”

“You're thinking how they want you to think, Johnathan.” Jeff wore his most paranoid expression, eyes narrowed and darting over every bit of their rapidly changing surroundings. 

Johnny was too focused on the matter that they were almost killed in a drive-by to even attempt correcting Jeff. His beliefs were very low in the list of current concerns.

“How did they find us so fast?” Johnny was quite sure he was shivering with stress. Or was this adrenaline? He raked his fingers through his hair, taking the next turn into an incredibly sketchy alleyway, leading them further into the city's bad parts. He didn't know where he was going, he just knew they needed to get away from the main roads. 

“I'm calling it; reform school sold us out in exchange for his broski.”

When Jeff said ‘reform school’, Johnny assumed he meant Jorel, which made ‘his broski’ Aron…  _ probably. _ Talking Jeff was challenging so who the fuck knew for sure? 

“He didn't. And telling the drug dealers where we are won’t get Aron free so what would be the point in doing it?” Johnny wasn't about to entertain Jeff's lunatic ideas for any amount of time, he shut them down as quickly as he could. The last thing they needed was Jeff going full-blown paranoid conspiracy nut on their asses.

“Well, then,” Jeff tipped his head, his bangs sliding to one side in a rare instance where both his eyes could be seen at once. “Maybe they chipped your dead druggie? They're microchipping everyone these days, you know.”

Johnny didn't comment, that statement was too ridiculous to entertain or even humour. He concentrated on taking the long way back to Shady’s over the stupid theories coming from Jeff. They needed to warn the others.

* * *

“... Cut along the joint lines. _ Do not _ rupture an intestine, we don’t have time for that mess.” Danny instructed like the authority, on his knees in a bloody bathtub with a half-dismembered corpse. Blowing a damp lock of hair from his sweaty brow, Danny chewed on his lip in concentration, working a saw through Ross’s shoulder, bones crunching, muscle tearing, all the way and Danny’s stomach didn’t flip once. 

Which could  _ not _ be said for the others. Jorel shut his eyes, his breaths controlled, trying to push this image out of his mind, even as Ross’s cold wrist was between his hands. Danny told him to hold this while he removed the arm. Apparently, the acid would dissolve the drug dealer faster and have less to work through if the…  _ bits _ were smaller. 

Disgust wise, Matt was of a like mind, he just had it a tad worse than Jorel at the moment. Jorel only needed to stand by, holding an arm, Matt was tasked with removing a foot. Gruellingly, the poor drummer’d been struggling with it for twenty minutes while in that time, Danny’d almost made Ross a triple amputee. Where did he learn all this shit? Jorel thought he was a sweet, innocent human being! But  _ no, _ turns out, the guy whose middle name was fucking  _ Rose _ was a secret serial killer. 

Putting the bloody saw aside, its teeth clogged with bone fragments and shredded muscle, Danny grabbed the wrist from Jorel, twisting Ross’s arm in the wrong direction until an important piece of anatomy snapped. Past the point of disgust, Jorel didn’t say anything as he watched Danny pull the limb apart from the body and lay it in the tub, along with everything he’d already taken off. 

It was becoming painfully apparent that Danny’s previous fear regarding the situation was simply a fluke and the blond was actually home to more testosterone than the entire population of a men’s prison. 

While Jorel and Matt were speckled with blood here and there, Danny was absolutely drenched in the stuff, straddling a body while he started to cut through the neck. And he had the utter  _ gall _ to accuse them of being crazy.

“Thought you said you wouldn’t stand by while we kill someone, blondie.” Dylan remarked, leaning on the doorframe, observing them quietly until this point. His arms were folded across a fresh hoodie he stole from one of Jeff’s employees’ lockers. Most of them did that since dry, almost clean clothes beat the bloody, damp and filthy garments previously on their backs.

  
“Didn’t expect you to help.” 

“We’re not killing him, he’s already dead.” Danny impatiently replied, taking a quick break to wipe blood and sweat off his forehead but smeared red lines across his features as he did so. With the saw, he pointed to Dylan, much less willing to take this shit while he was committing ten kinds of felonies helping them clean up their mess.

“And if you ain’t gonna help, or do anything at all,  _ shut up. _ Your voice is fucking with my concentration.” With that, Danny returned to decapitating a man twice his proportion and surprisingly, Dylan didn’t fire back. Their Hispanic clicked his tongue, eyes rolling to his mutter in Spanish that was no doubt him cursing Danny to shreds. 

Sulking, Dylan headed to check on Charlie, who was doing what he could to help in the form of disposing of non-organic evidence; their bloody clothes. The backyard was walled-off high enough to feel safe from the eyes of nosy neighbours, no one paid attention to the blaze going among the heaps of scrap metal. 

_ “Dios _ , that guy’s fucked up.” Dylan grumbled, joining Charlie by the fire as their wounded maniac tossed Johnny’s far-gone hoodie onto the pile of burning clothes. 

“Danny? I think he’s cute.” Charlie replied, feeling slightly more talkative now that his blood levels had returned closer to normal. His injured arm was pulled into his shirt and he focused on not using it. He might pop his stitches if he flexed his shoulder or lifted something too heavy.

“I take it then that you haven’t seen him straddling a mutilated body in there.” 

“I think you’d be more annoyed if he stood by and refused to get his hands dirty.  _ Or,”  _ Charlie looked away from the fire, meeting Dylan’s gaze through the dawn gloom. “...  _ Less _ annoyed if he weren’t flaxen of hair.” 

“Never trust a goddamn blond, man.” Grim, Dylan’s lower lip tensed as he recalled the many reasons he believed that. Wounds left by blonds past wouldn’t heal over to trust Danny even a little bit. 

He couldn't live like this, he needed to the edge off, Dylan searched for cigarettes in his pockets and when he found one, he caught a flame from the bonfire.  _ God, _ he missed weed.

“The roots of his hair are dark, if you haven't noticed.” Charlie pointed out, watching Dylan’s cautionless reach towards the fire to light his cig. His sleeve almost went ablaze, orange and red tongues of heat licking the fabric for seconds before he retracted his limb.

_ “So?” _ Disinterested, Dylan took a long inhale of nicotine, relishing in the softness of the poison balming his stress. He didn’t like being anything but hazily happy, this feeling was wrong to him.

_ “So, _ he’s not a natural blond. Doesn’t that make it better?” 

Gritting his jaw, Dylan shook his head, turning his gaze away to glare at the horizon as if he could see the torches of an enemy’s army bobbing in the dark. 

_ “No. _ That just means he willingly joined the fair side. It makes him  _ even _ worse.” 

Scoffing, Charlie rolled his eyes and got back to using his good arm to load ruined clothes onto the fire. When  _ he _ thought Dylan’s behaviour was ridiculous, it said a lot.

Back in the bathroom, Danny had no idea they were talking about him outside while he finished severing the last leg. He took over from Matt, the drummer physically couldn't do it, he didn't have what it took to remove a man's limbs without gagging. He was standing over there in the furthest corner he could squeeze into, mortified by what he'd seen Danny do.

Danny wouldn't say he was an expert at this, that sounded like this was a pastime of his, but being Italian-American meant he could do the hard things when push came to shove. But maybe heritage wasn't the difference here, since if he recalled correctly, Jorel was of similar blood, third-generation Italian immigrant, and he didn't exchange his stomach lining for steel to get this done.

Despite how discreetly Jorel did it, Danny noticed him carefully sneaking away to join Matt on the other side of the room, where the stench was least potent. Danny was left to do this by himself but truthfully, this was easier. Those two didn’t know what they were doing, they kept getting in his way. 

“Thought you guys were gangsta?” Danny couldn’t help the slight smirk, aware he must appear quite crazy, covered in sweat and Ross’s cold blood, kneeling in a bathtub with fresh human remains, but there was a certain irony to this that amused him. Or then he was so fucking exhausted that he found this amusing. 

_ “Apparently _ we are not.” Matt replied, swallowing down another mouthful of repulsion. His hands were clasped in front of himself, he tried to keep his line of sight above the corpse. 

“Never would've guessed fucking  _ doe-eyes _ from Lorene Drive is crazier than us.” Jorel rubbed his palm on his cheek, not sure where it was safe to lay his gaze. Anytime he closed his eyelids, he saw the blood and shredded limbs. 

“The term ‘crazy’ suggests my ability to tell right from wrong is impaired and therefore I'm not responsible for my actions or I simply don't know what I'm doing. I'm not crazy, so if I do something, right or wrong, it's all intentional. You can be sure I meant it.” At some point during that intensely terrifying explanation, Danny had returned his attention to the corpse, picking meat off the saw's teeth. 

“Danny, you are  _ seriously _ scary.” Matt was repeating himself here but saying it again kinda made it easier to overlook this Dahmer bullshit. Still, he was thankful Danny was doing the Dahmer bullshit for them, he didn’t need to throw-up in his mouth one more time. 

“You’re supposed to be _ cute.” _ The drummer went on, putting pressure on the last word like it was magic to undo all this.

“You assumed I was when you’ve known me for less than twenty-four hours. Comes to show you shouldn’t assume things about strangers.” Danny replied, further unsettling everyone present, probably even Ross and he was dead as roast beef. Perhaps the blond would’ve gone further but he got distracted by something he noticed. Frowning, he reached into the murder mess for the odd little black thing that was very out of place, hiding among what  _ was _ the bicep. 

“What’ve you got, Danny?” Jorel asked, coming as close as he dared to see clearer. 

“Uh... I dunno.” Danny was as puzzled as they were, lifting his hand with the tiny black thing between his index and thumb. He brought it nearer to his face for examination but it didn’t make any more sense. It was no bigger than half a pea, certainly not organic, it didn’t belong in Ross’s body. Not originally, at least. 

“Guys… that’s a fucking tracker.” Matt realised aloud, palm slowly rising to cover his agape mouth. What the fuck? Drug dealers came  _ chipped _ now?

“What - like a _ microchip?” _ Jorel demanded but didn’t wait for confirmation, running a hand across his face when he realised what this meant. All this while, those gangbangers had been able to track them and during this time, they could already be behind the fucking door… shit never ended, did it? They must’ve really fucked that Murphy guy over something fierce to constantly be on the receiving end of his law.

“Well don’t  _ fondle _ it,  _ Danny _ , destroy it!” Matt gave the microchip a wild gesture with his hand, disbelieving Danny was holding it gently while a Spanish _ drug cartel _ could be breaking the door down any minute. 

_ “Wait.” _ Jorel cut in, another plan already taking form in his head. “We need that.” 

Confused, Danny looked from the tracker to Jorel, finally giving them a glimpse of his non-villainous self that they became acquainted with. 

“Why? They can find us with this, if they haven’t already”

“Yeah, but if the signal cuts off here, they’ll still know where to come and we don’t got another place to run to. We need them off our backs while we find that bitch Lyle and get him to fuss up to the cops.” Jorel explained, the dots connecting for his two companions as he spoke.

“So… one of us takes the tracker and leads the dealers on a wild goose chase?” Matt murmured thoughtfully, holding his chin in his fingers and staring past the floor tiles, considering it and while it was risky as fuck, they were past the point where that was a concern. Right now, with so many irons in the fire, being chased by the cops and the drug dealers alike, they needed the noose loosened in one of those departments. 

It was Johnny’s idea to find that Lyle roach, he went to call Marcus for help on that, so the rest of them should work the drug dealer angle, right?

“Who’s gonna do it, though?” Matt asked and right on cue, Dylan walked back in, wandering aimlessly with nothing to do. His boredom shone like a beacon against the night sky. As well as bored, Dylan was an A++ driver, resourceful, knew how to use a gun, and wasn’t currently doing anything but causing riffraff. 

Noticing the way everyone’s eyes landed on him, Dylan paused at the doorway, brows knitting together in suspicion. 

_ “What?”  _


	6. the good stuff

~~_Thirteen hours ago._ ~~

“I know exactly who took it.” Dylan announced the moment it came to light that Charlie’s vision for the future of their music was snatched from his locker. He recalled that backpack he saw Lyle giving Ross in the alley, it was familiar now that he compared it to Charlie’s matching one. What the fuck? That Lorene Drive bitch was seriously stealing from them now? Danny probably put him up to it. Damn that cabrano.

“What?” Jorel looked up from comforting Charlie, weeping into his shoulder, utterly lost to the throes of despair. Jorel’s shirt was damp as the waterworks fell automatedly. 

“It’s that guitarist gringo, Reust. I saw him giving a bag to some guy outside.” With his thumb, Dylan motioned behind him to the back door he came in through moments since. His expression was grim with certainty no one needed to doubt, he wasn’t lying. Charlie being this inconsolably distraught, he wouldn’t lie just because of his Danny-bias.

_“Seriously?”_ Aron’s most outraged face came on, he didn’t wait for a response before storming off to find the man in question, Lyle, but Jorel abandoned Charlie to grab his best friend by the shoulders. While Aron may be as slender as a pixie, he could fuck a guy up, yet Jorel didn’t think it was a great idea.

“Don’t-” Jorel’s sentence was cut off by Matt marching past, Johnny on his heels, the two of them tense with a vengeful swell in the chest. No one made Charlie cry, and if they did, Undead called for blood.

“Let’s fucking _kill_ that guy.” Matt growled, rolling his sleeves to the half-way point of his arms. His teeth were bared, the sharp points visible. Johnny was of a like mind and even more terrifying than their curly-topped drummer, probably because of his intimidating stature. 

_“Dylan,”_ Jorel cut in, unable to grab all of his bandmates in just his two hands. “Are you sure it was Lyle?”

Dylan nodded, revealing no flickers of doubt in what he saw.

“Sí.” He replied. “And that was Charlie’s fucking backpack too, no question.” Right on cue, to his detriment, Lyle chose that fatal moment to come back inside and walk in on the angry Undead. His hood was pulled over his head, his hands were stuffed deep into his pockets, a smeared line of drying blood left his lower face tinted pink, but his pathetic appearance didn’t sway anyone. 

Johnny grabbed him by a fistful of the hoodie and pinned him to the wall, making Lyle jolt in alarm. His feet were off the ground, Johnny was strong enough to hold him there with just the one arm.

"Where _the fuck_ is Charlie's song?" Johnny demanded through his set teeth, bringing his face mere inches from Lyle's. 

"What? I don't know about any song." He answered in a frightened manner, and who wouldn't be scared of an angry J3T? 

_"Bullshit._ Dylan _saw_ you." Johnny bit, right as Charlie appeared at his side, glaring despite the burn of tears in his eyes. 

"You stole my fucking song!" 

"I - I _don't_ know what you're talking about." Lyle persisted with the lie, which is when Dylan stepped in, feeling that as the key witness, his word held weight.

"You gave Char's backpack to some dude named Ross in the alley. Don’t try to deny it, I was _there."_ With Dylan's statement, Lyle's expression went from confused to straight-up horrified. 

_"What?_ The - the backpack was _Charlie's?"_

"So's the fucking song in it!" Charlie shoved Lyle back into the wall when Johnny dropped him. But the panicking guitarist wasn't bothered by that, he pushed by Charlie to the lockers lining the wall. The door to Charlie's was thrown open, Lyle was losing his mind before their eyes as he fumbled with the lock on the locker beside it. 

Struggling to get it open, he reached in deep when he managed, horror hitting him like a brick wall as his fingers came upon fabric inside. He dragged out a backpack that bore a remarkable resemblance to Charlie's, plain, scruffy and black. Lyle's hand shook too badly to hold the backpack, it fell with a solid thwack onto the floor, courtesy of the weight of whatever was in there.

_"Fuck._ It - it's the wrong one. It's the - the wrong one." He stammered insensibly, crumbling to his knees and holding his head, tearing out his hair at the strands. No one from the Undead knew what they were watching, they were all so confused, what the hell was going on? Lyle was having a full on meltdown as they stared. The hell was he so scared of? 

Dylan intended to be the pioneer of finding out. He went over to the fallen backpack and picked it up, unzipping that shit and to everyone's eye-widening surprise, it was _brimming_ with packets of white powder. They all probably already knew what it was but Dylan decided to make certain; he pricked a hole into a packet with his Caddy's keys, wetting the tip of his finger on his tongue. He dipped it in the bit of powder that spilled out and ran it along his gums, eyebrows rising when the flavour hit.

_"Shit._ That's the good stuff." He commented, Aron snatched the backpack from him before he could further indulge in the finer things, outraged as he turned to Lyle. The guitarist wouldn't get off his knees, he wouldn't stop shaking, not that Aron cared.

_"Drugs?!_ Why do you have fucking _drugs_ in _our_ recording studio?!"

  
  


* * *

Danny was washing the last of the acid and human sludge down the drain when the door burst open and Johnny ran in with Jeff. They were badly shaken up, scratched and bruised here and there. Clearly, the outing didn't go well.

“What happened?” Jorel read Johnny's expression the instant he entered and knew something was amiss. He shot up from the couch Charlie and Matt were taking a nap in the corner of, crossing the room to his other friends. 

_“Johnny.”_ Jorel pried when Johnny panted instead of answering, doubled over, his hands on his knees, his breaths were wheezy and harsh. They must have run quite the distance, Jeff leaned on the gun cabinet by the door with both hands, his flanks heaving. He was too puffed to speak, his limbs trembled from strain. 

“They're - th - they're _tracking_ u - us.” Johnny struggled to get that out, face sweaty, skin flush with red. His lungs felt as if they were tearing at the seams.

“We know, mate. We found the tracker.” Jorel grabbed Johnny around the forearm with both hands, holding him still against the exhausted quivering of his muscles.

“Wh - what?” Johnny gave a confused frown as he stood straight, towering above Jorel when at his full height.

_“Microchip_. There was a microchip in Ross, Danny found it, it's gone now.”

“See, Jonathan, Shady _told_ you!” Triumphant, Jeff yelled from the other side of the room, a spark of glee lighting up the blue of his eyes. Did he not hear what Jorel just said? How did the gravity of this situation go over his head like that?

Jeff's raised voiced caused Charlie to snap awake, he jolted up from leaning on Matt's shoulder, blinking rapidly in confusion. Instinctively, subconsciously, Matt felt around for Charlie with a clumsy hand, eyes shut, drawing the maniac back into his side when he found him. Charlie was so sleepy and disoriented, he returned straight to slumber, licking his lips drowsily. 

_“Don't_ wake them.” Jorel ordered Jeff, the hiss of his whisper carrying across the room. They'd all been awake for nearly two days, they deserved sleep but only some could get it.

Jeff motioned a zipper over his lips and piped down, letting Jorel get back to his conversation with Johnny. 

“Danny found the tracker when he was chopping Ross up-”

“Danny did _what?”_ Johnny's gaze widened disbelievingly, ill-prepared for that gruesome detail.

“He chopped Ross up.” Jorel waved it off nonchalantly, it really wasn't the biggest development of late. 

“They were tracking us with a damned _microchip.”_ That was such SciFi shit, he still scarcely believed it but in this day and age, why was this strange? 

“That explains how they found us so fast. Those motherfuckers tried to gun me and Jeff down. We didn't even get to call Marcus before they were popping caps at us.” Well, they did, not that it mattered, Johnny was done counting their failures at this point, there weren't enough numbers under the sun. 

_“Shit._ You guys are good, though, right?” Visually, Jorel checked his friends over again, relieved there weren't any circular wounds oozing blood. He didn't know what they'd do if they lost another two, and that was just looking at it practically, not even taking into consideration the emotional damage. 

“Yeah, we are.” Johnny confirmed what his unwounded appearance already did. “Where's the tracker now? You break it?”

“No. Dylan took it, he's leading them away from us so we-”

“You gave it to _Dylan?”_ Again, Johnny was having a hard time swallowing what happened during his short leave of absence, pure shit being funnelled at them with both hands.

“The rest of us were getting rid of evidence, Dylan wasn't doing anything useful, so we gave him a task.” Jorel tried explaining his reasoning but Johnny wasn't here for this. He put his hands up to stop his friend from speaking any more.

“Don't say _task._ You didn't give him _a task._ You sent him on a fucking suicide mission alone with zero backup. What if those gangbangers catch up with him?” Where in the hell did Jorel decide Dylan would be safe on this fucking _‘task’?_ Granted, in their current situation, no one was secure in their safety but this was too risky for liking. 

“They _won't._ I wouldn't have sent Dyl if I thought he was gonna get caught. The way that guy drives, not even fucking McQueen can keep up. There and back, Dylan will be fine.” Jorel was sure of that, why would Johnny ever think he'd be willing to risk the band baby's life for any price at all? It was all this tension and stress getting to them.

“I _don't_ like this, J.” Blowing his cheeks out, Johnny expressed with a hand carding through his hair, an oh-so-familiar motion of displeasure. Jorel understood. He got it, of course.

“I don't _like_ any of this. I don't like that Charlie got shot, Aron's in jail, or that Danny chopped up a corpse in Jeff's bathtub.” While Jorel listed those things off, Jeff's brows pulled closer in puzzlement. Apparently, no one had told him what they'd be doing in the bathroom. Holding his expression, he went to investigate, see what the fuck they'd done now.

“There aren't a lot of good choices here, Johnny, I'm just tryna keep everyone alive. If we left that fucking thing here, we'd all be dead. I took a fucking _risk.”_ Jorel found he vented when dead tired and hardly able to stand on his feet, he was too exhausted to defend his choices where it was due. Johnny noticed that, he decided to lay off, it wasn’t like Jorel would purposefully endanger any of them. It was this damn predicament, making them each snappy. 

“I… I know. I'm sorry, I didn't mean… _Anything.”_ He apologised quick, he didn't want to argue with one of his closest friends, not now. Jorel was right, Dylan had been sneaking around since he could walk, no one would cause him trouble. And he'd be back soon. 

Jorel sighed, his shoulders sagging. He began rubbing soothing circles into his temples, attempting to relieve the pressure of the migraine raging like a storm.

“I - I'm just _so_ fucking tired, man.” His eyelids closed for the brief moment it took for those words to come out, he was amazed that he was able to open them against the seeming lead-lining. Comfortingly, Johnny placed his hand over Jorel's shoulder, squeezing it gently.

“I know. You should rest for a bit, I'll keep watch.”

“Can't. We need to find Lyle and get Aron outta jail and get these drug dealers to back off and-”

“Jo. _Sleep._ ” Both of Johnny's hands landed on his friend, the weight of them dragging him a few feet from insensibility. “We can't get shit done if we're too tired to stand.”

Heavily, Jorel blinked up at Johnny with blank eyes, looking like he was going to give the other some lip but then he got smart, giving a small, weak bob of his head. Patting him on the back, Johnny lead him to the beat-up, only _slightly_ bloody couch Charlie and Matt occupied half of. Defeatedly, Jorel crashed onto the cushions, asleep before he hit them. When he came to again, he'd worry himself numb, but for now, sweet oblivion claimed him.

Sympathetically, Johnny regarded his snoozing bandmates in silence, Matt propped on the armrest, Charlie tucked under his arm, Jorel with his head pillowed across Charlie's lap.

“You don't want to join them?” Danny asked in a low tone, joining Johnny, towelling droplets of water from his hands. He just finished cleaning up the blood and what was left of Ross to be found, now he needed to make himself presentable. 

“I'd love to.” Johnny admitted, rubbing his eyes. “But can't. I need to keep watch.” Exhaling through his nose, Johnny rotated on his heel to face Danny. The blond bore no resemblance to the man he was before he met them, two days ago. His shirt was gone, drying on the towel rack, leaving Danny clad in only damp jeans and Nikes. Johnny was surprised by the number of tattoos he had, inky pictures stretching across his chest, belly, and arms. Not to mention, his physique was more toned than one would expect, diamond-cut muscle structure he worked hard to maintain, only to hide it away under baggy clothes. 

Danny's bangs were wet, he must have taken a quick shower to clean off the blood, muscle shreds and bone fragments, his skin was clean and glistening with tiny beads of water. Bruises and cuts, he had plenty, like all of them. Looking at him in this light, Johnny found it felt… out of place that Danny wasn't Undead. He looked Undead when scratched up, bearing battle wounds from a fight not his own. 

“But you should get some sleep, though. You haven't gotten rest either, Danno.”

_“Danno?”_ Quirking a brow, Danny smirked tiredly, too lethargic to garner a more invested reaction. 

“Sorry.” Johnny smiled a bit too, past the point of exhaustion. His brain hurt. “Too sleepy to pronounce things right.”

“Too bad you refuse to sleep.”

“Too bad.” He agreed, nodding, arms crossed as he surveyed the room around them. It was gloomy and _suspiciously_ empty.

“Where did Jeff go?”

Danny didn't get to answer, Jeff came running back from the bathroom with the pistol he had hidden in the medicine cabinet. His pace was quick, his face urgent, he shoved Danny at Johnny, trying to get them both back into the breakroom. 

“Stay down, stay fucking quiet.” He ordered, not giving away any information as to why he was in defense mode again. But Johnny and Danny glanced out the window by chance and understood completely. Through the mold-speckled curtains, they could make out the blue, black, and white of the squad car rolling up the driveway. 

Shit! Pulse beginning to pound again, Johnny grabbed Danny's wrist and pulled the smaller man into the breakroom, where the cops couldn't see them from the door. Who the hell was wearing a tracker now for them to find the bandmates this quick?

“Keep low.” Johnny whispered to Danny, pushing the blond onto the couch with the rest, though they were asleep and blissfully oblivious to the police being here. Outside, they could hear the engine turn off and shortly after, the doors close in the wake of the cops coming out, approaching the building. 

His heart in his throat, Johnny pressed his back into the wall, listening to the two short, brisk knocks.

Headed for the door, Jeff stuffed his piece into the back of his jeans, ready if he needed to use it. He'd go out in a blaze if he had to, he'd go out with cop blood on his hands or get shot himself before he let the government take him. He knew what they did to his kind once caught, people who knew what really went on with the world, and he'd be better off dead.

“Jeffrey Phillips?” One of the pigs arched a brow at the small emo that opened up, peering at them through a crack. 

_“Shady.”_ Jeff quietly corrected, holding the door mostly closed so that they could see only part of his face. He didn't want them coming in here, they'd find the guys and then it was over… were that to pass, Jeff might have to kill all of them. 

“Mr Phillips, we had reports of gunfire from a nearby residence.” The cop went on, completely disregarding Jeff's preferred name. _Motherfucker._

“Residents say they witnessed a drive-by, a red Volvo firing an automatic weapon at two men.” As he spoke, Jeff felt a tense nerve in him slacken somewhat. Good, they weren't here because they knew he was harbouring fugitives. They were here about the drive-by. 

“According to eye-witnesses, there was a big guy in a hoodie and a smaller person, wearing a red neckerchief.” His gaze landed on Jeff's bright scarlet bandana, hanging loosely around his neck. In his eyes, there was suspicion deliberately placed out in the open.

“Ah, _shit.”_ Jeff shook his head, irritated, chewing on his lip ring. “You mean I _didn't_ trademark red scarves?”

The officers weren't amused by his sarcasm, they regarded him humorlessly.

“Mr Phillips, may we please come in?”

“Got a warrant?” 

“No.”

“Then no.”

The cop pursed his lips, once again sweeping Jeff up and down with his eyes, just slower this time. He was tryna look intimidating but he was trying this song and dance with the wrong person. 

“You don't want to fight us, Phillips. We know who you used to be bandmates with. Those men are wanted criminals.”

“Are they?” Jeff tipped his head, acting surprised in the least interested way. “I wouldn't know. I don't keep up with what those bastards are up to.” 

The scrutinising eyes trying to pick him apart for lies narrowed, the men who owned them wanted to throw Jeff aside and barge into search the place, but the law didn't allow that. 

“You better pray you aren't involved. In _anything._ Or you'll be joining the rest of them behind bars.” The cop warned with a growl and bared lip, shortly before he and his partner headed back towards their car. 

“You haven't even caught them yet.” Jeff huffed, annoyed with this drop by. As if he didn't have enough to worry about with running his illegal chop shop, now _this._

“What's the damage?” Johnny asked as Jeff returned to them, removing the gun from his belt. With haphazard fingers, he also began tugging the knot of his bandana open. 

“They were asking about the drive-by but it's a matter of time until they figure out you're here.” 

_“Fuck.”_ Cursing, Johnny exhaled deep, lifting both hands to clutch his head. There was so much shit going on he feared his entire skull would implode in the next few seconds. 

“That's why we need to find Lyle.” Danny joined them and the conversation from the next room, the damp towel he was previously holding now slung across his shoulders. His expression was dead set serious, ready and willing to hunt down his bandmate if it meant the real story got out. By framing them for this, Danny lost all semblance of the loyalty that was so strong between them.

“We get him to spill and we'll still have shit to deal with, yeah, but at least they won't be pegging us for arson, murder, and fucking drug charges.” Danny went on, Jeff agreed with a wholehearted rhythm of nods, pointing an approving finger towards the blond. 

“I like him. If you never get Aron back, keep this one.”


	7. cannon-fodder

Dylan hated his friends. He actually did. Were they even his friends? Would real amigos send him to be some fucked-up decoy to direct a drug cartel away from them? And here he’d been thinking that _Danny_ was their expendable cannon-fodder. Apparently not. Figures, it was the only non-whitey among them who got to be bait.

Grumbling curses, Dylan sparked the wires beneath the steering wheel of the car he broke into. It was a couple of blocks from Shady's, a sweet little champagne Kia left unmanned on a dangerous street. He needed a ride, not a fucking chance he was going on foot across California. 

The literal bloody tracker sat in a small plastic bag on the passenger seat beside him, silently calling a mob to his location. 

“ _Comienzo…_ ” Dylan grit, touching the stripped wires again, willing for the damn thing to start already. He didn't have time for an uppity bitch car. His taut nerves and paranoia kept making him think he heard a suspicious noise or saw something from the corner of his eye that wasn't really there. 

And then finally, on the third attempt, the engine sparked to life. The tense line of his shoulders let up with relief, a tiny smile flitted onto his lips, he pulled the handbrake and switched gears, starting slow as he drove away from the curb. However, that crawl of a pace didn't last, as soon as he was able, he urged the car as close to the speed limit as was legal. He'd like to floor it but attracting cops wouldn't end well, plus this Kia was no racing car, unlike his dearly beloved Cadillac, resting at the bottom of the bay.

God, he missed his Caddy. 

Driving slowly went against Dylan's innermost madman, he didn't like the way the brakes felt every time he eased them. The way his surroundings didn't blur almost made it harder to navigate than when they did.

The famous California sun was beginning to peek over the buildings, casting long shadows across empty streets. As winter was here now, the sun seemed cold and distant, there only to remind them that it was once warm.

A blinding box of yellow light shone across the dash, it made Dylan wonder how long until Johnny noticed he stole his sunglasses. They sat comfortably on the bridge of his nose, blocking out all these intrusive UV rays. The lenses were black, tinted purple, a line of gilded silver running the length of the frame, so fancy. Dylan didn't intend on returning them. 

For sending him out this way, they deserved a little vengeance, even if Johnny wasn't present when it happened and didn't actually have anything to do with it. 

Dylan couldn't stand the silence that came with being alone in the car, he switched the radio on for company, picking a random channel and sticking with it.

_“.. And up next, we've got something special for you listeners, a sample track from Lorene Drive's first album, Romantic Wealth!”_

_Oh shit._ Dylan couldn't believe his misfortune. How did it even happen that they were playing this garbage at the very moment he turned the radio on? _Whatever,_ he may as well see what Danny and his loser friends had to offer, not that he was expecting much. Probably just a bunch of caterwauling and out of tune guitar string plucking. 

Giving a low sigh, Dylan sat back as the intro began playing and prepared his ears for rape. So imagine his surprise when he heard Danny's voice for the first time. Clear as the purest silver, smoother than butter cream, he reached the highest high notes without effort then reeled his voice into a cottony soft tone when the moment called. It was in horror that Dylan realised that Aron couldn't hit some of those notes on his best day… _fuck._

One might even say… Danny's voice was… absolutely _gorgeous._ What the fuck sorcery was this?

Dylan was no longer focusing on the road, his disbelieving, shocked eyes riveted to the radio. Danny… was an _amazing_ singer. _What?_ … _what?!_ This went against everything Dylan made himself believe, that Danny was some talentless wannabe among other talentless wannabes. But no… Lyle wasn't kidding, Danny possessed the pipes of a goddamn _angel._

Dylan was honestly too disturbed by this discovery to listen to the entirety of the song, he switched the radio off, committing himself to silence. He tried not to think about the purity of Danny's voice, but every time he escaped the thought, that eargasmic singing crept back into mind.

Shit. Dylan didn't want to have any positivity or compliments for Danny. And now he did so fucking fantastic.

Maybe if he focused solely on the task, he could forget all about this.

Beating the morning rush hour came with a lot of benefits, one of which was making it quick to the other side of the city, or quick considering the size of California and the fact that Dylan was obeying traffic laws. He figured the drug dealers were expecting them to skip town as fast as humanly possible, so he took himself to the bus station. He had to find a suitable vehicle to hide the tracker on so he could circle back around to his friends. Those fucking bastards. 

Creeping along, trying not to attract attention, Dylan located a bus heading outta state and picked it. The tracker was tiny enough to slide in through an air vent, he removed the bag and it was done. He did what he was told and now maybe his bandmates would shut up already.

Dylan was walking back to the jacked Kia, weaving through vehicles in the parking lot, when he noticed movement from the corner of his eye. Slowly, a red Volvo rolled around the corner, an ordinary car leaving the lot but he felt something was seriously off about it. He didn't feel comfortable being in its line of sight. Picking up his pace, Dylan first speed-walked then began to jog towards the Kia, right as the Volvo sped up. What.. _?_

He took a subtle glance over his shoulder, this time noticing the details of the vehicle. The windshield was cracked, bullet holes pierced the sides, it bore a remarkable resemblance to… the Volvo that tried to run them off the road last night. _Oh fuck._

When Dylan started running, the car revved the engine, heading straight for him. _Shit_ \- shit, the Kia was fifteen meters away while the hood of the Volvo got closer and closer. It was gonna hit him before he could get to safety, any second now. He fumbled for the gun tucked into the front of his belt, his fingers coming upon the cold handle, he yanked the weapon out but didn't get to fire or even aim before four thousand pounds of metal and horsepower smashed into him. 

Instantly, it picked Dylan up and threw him, it hurled him like he weighed nothing and slammed him into the asphalt. The horrific jolt that careered through his body shocked every nerve and pain receptor, choking them with an avalanche of painful information. Compared to the car hitting him, the impact with the ground was nothing. The solid thwack and gravel cutting and grazing didn't process.

A taste of blood filled his mouth surprisingly fast, all the breath was forced from his lungs as if someone crushed him. Or that's what happened, his vision blurred worse than any acid trip could cause, he couldn't get up despite his brain screaming at him to do so and run. Run from here, he couldn't get caught _, he couldn't,_ his friends needed him but even with all that motivation, his strength fled as rats from a sinking ship. 

The car didn't run him over, it stopped just shy of that goal and two men hurried out, communicating in Spanish but Dylan didn't understand his own mother tongue. He barely registered that they took his arms and began dragging him in a direction of their choosing. Everything was going black pretty damn fast. He was bleeding all over the place from too many cuts and scrapes to count. Lances of fiery pain licked through him, specifically his wrist, so maybe it was a mercy that his consciousness was swivelling away. 

Weakly, his eyes batted open a sliver, just enough to see the red streaks across the ground. Was… was that _all_ his blood? No wonder his head swam so drunkenly. 

“... Jesucristo, did you kill 'im?”

“As long as they think he's alive, it doesn't matter.”

* * *

When Charlie came to, he was sandwiched between his sleeping bandmates, Matt to one side, Jorel on the other, and Johnny was slumped against the armrest on the opposite end of the couch. He’d tried to pull a third all-nighter but succumbed to his exhaustion for what he’d intended to be only moments, but it was now mid-morning and the man was yet to awaken.

Groggily, Charlie pushed Matt’s arm off of himself and sat up, scanning the dim breakroom for any signs of life. He wondered where Jeff and Danny were, it was so quiet. It was also cold and his shoulder smouldered with pain, but the burning almost made up for the chill seeping into Charlie’s bones. 

Focusing on the pain would worsen it, he decided to get up and go in search of someone who wasn’t sleeping but when he moved, Jorel slumped onto Matt and like dominoes, Johnny followed after. Now they were all piled up on each other. Jorel was hugging Matt around the middle and like always when Jorel slept, he lightly bit and sucked on his bottom lip. He'd probably stop when his snakebites hit him in the teeth hard enough.

Charlie entered Jeff’s office and saw that their wee emo was under his desk, washing an unhealthy amount of caffeine pills down with Monster while murmuring paranoid things to himself. The maniac didn’t ask why, how, or what, Charlie simply pretended he didn’t see Jeff, passed through the room and next, he came upon Danny. 

The blond was no longer drenched in blood as he was when Charlie last saw him, he’d cleaned up and busied himself getting fully clothed again. Before he could get his hoodie over his bare torso, Charlie caught a nice eye-full of Danny’s ripped physique and sexy gallery of tattoos, and he tipped his head with a subtle eyebrow raise, smirking. _Damn,_ that dude should take his clothes off more often. Charlie would certainly thank him for it.

“I - I thought you were sleeping.” Blushing, Danny went full-blown awkward when he noticed Charlie ogling him from the doorway. He quickly pulled the hem of his shirt to hide his amazing abs and those pecs Charlie wanted to lick ice cream off of - in a _completely_ non-creepy and strictly platonic way, _of course._

“I woke up.” Charlie shrugged the one shoulder he dared to, his wounded arm in the make-shift sling Matt made for him out of his own bandana. They scrubbed the bloodstains out, so that was nice.

“Where’re you going?” He went on to inquire, taking note of Danny’s sneakers and the hoodie he was getting into. But Charlie was still thinking about his muscles and tats. Probably would for a while to come, to be honest. Unappreciated sexiness of that magnitude, it left a deep impression in his mind.

“I… I didn’t wanna wake the others.” Danny’s tongue darted along his bottom lip, he sent the breakroom a nervous glance. When he interlocked gazes with Charlie again, his sweet, soft doe-eyes were so on-edge that Charlie decided to stop lusting after him… for now.

“... But, uh…” Struggling to explain himself clearly, Danny reached into his jeans’ pocket and withdrew his phone. There was a crack across the screen, the edges were chipped, a couple of rice grains still clung to it after he stuck it into a box of Uncle Ben’s to get the water out, and with all that effort, it still barely worked. It was only ten minutes ago that he managed to get the damn thing to turn on, glitching screen and all, and he discovered his inbox was blowing up.

_“Look,”_ Once Danny got the phone unlocked against its sluggishness, he offered it to Charlie, letting the other read through the litany of new text messages, all of them… from Lyle. That alone made Charlie’s frown furrow, he clicked on the first one and scanned it over.

**‘You need to get away from those people.’** It read. Charlie moved onto the one beneath it.

**‘Danny, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to get caught up in this.’**

**‘Let HU take the fall. The cops don’t like them as it is, you’ll be fine if you just turn them in and let the authorities know where they are. Please. I don’t want you getting hurt.’**

**‘Get smart with this or you’ll go down too’.**

**‘Stop protecting people who won’t protect you. You need to turn them in.’** As the messages went on, Lyle grew increasingly aggressive when Danny wasn’t responding to any of it.

**‘Danny, please, fucking answer me. I’m worried about you.’**

**‘DANIEL.’**

**‘Danny.’**

**‘Danny.’**

**‘Danny.’**

**‘Danny. Don’t fucking ignore me.’**

And it went on like that until finally, the truth behind what this slew of messages was really about sprung to light.

**‘If you have those damn drugs and the Spanish catch you with them, you’re worse than dead. Give them back to me. I’ll handle it if you can do that. This is my mess, let me deal with it.’**

Of course, Lyle wanted the drugs he failed to give to Ross, but see, the problem was that the Undead didn’t have them and last they saw that backpack, it was in Lyle’s possession. Which, even for the idiot he was, Lyle should bloody well know. 

“This…” Charlie lifted his gaze from the phone screen to once again tie with Danny’s. Danny’s arms were crossed, he chewed on his lip and held the floor in a captive stare.

“... This isn’t Lyle, is it?” 

“No… I don’t think so. I think that during that shitshow at the warehouse, he could’ve lost his phone and if the drug dealers got hold of it-”

“- They could be pretending to be Lyle to get their shit, if they think we have it.” Charlie finished for Danny with an exasperated sigh that blew his chipmunk cheeks out. After returning the half-busted phone to Danny, he put his good hand on his hip.

_“Shit.”_ Charlie hissed through his teeth, set with agitation. They didn’t have those drugs, Lyle did, they didn’t have Lyle, and the cartel wanted their damn drugs. There was a quarter of a million dollars worth of the purest Colombian cocaine that they were after, they wouldn’t let such a sum of money slip through their fingers. Who would? That was another reason they needed to find that guitarist who fucked them all over, not just to get the cops off their ass but also to appease some drug dealers.

Now which was more pressing? Well, only one of those types would kill them but the other was plotting to take their lives away in a completely different fashion. 

God, this was so fucked up.

“So where were you going to go?” Charlie asked. It still needed to be addressed that Danny was clearly on his way somewhere before Charlie came in to cash his shirtless mental image into the spank bank. Charlie wasn’t gay, he just appreciated God’s finer creations. Such as a half-naked Daniel Murillo.

Bowing his head, Danny gave a shallow exhale, running widened fingers through the sunshine hair that Dylan hated so passionately. 

"... Lyle wouldn’t’ve gotten involved with those dealers if we hadn't needed money to record Romantic Wealth. He lied to us about where it came from, we didn't know what he was doing, sure, but that makes me and Kris and the others equally responsible. You guys shouldn't have to hurt for this, I was going to find a cop and…" Danny trailed off with a hopeless look in his pretty eyes but Charlie could read what he wanted to say. And he didn't take it lightly.

"Hell _no!"_ Charlie exclaimed, throwing his working arm up and not caring if he woke his friends by yelling. Danny was his friend too, whether he liked it or not, and this demanded Charlie's fieriest retort. 

"You self-sacrificing _bastard,_ you aren't responsible for the shit your bandmate pulled. You're just as fucked by him as we are, so you're not turning yourself in. You are _not."_ Charlie glared at Danny in determination to stand in the way of his plan, annoyed Danny would even entertain this. 

"But - but if I tell them that you and the others had nothing to do with this and that it was all me and Lorene Drive, they might let Aron go and stop lynching you." Danny feebly argued back. He didn't want to give up his freedom or that of his innocent bandmates’, but he wanted the Undead to take the fall even less. He'd grown to like these guys, even if they were deranged and Dylan hated him, if he could somehow help them, he had to do it. As Jeff said, it was only a matter of time until the police found them, probably before Lyle could be located, and then it was all over. 

Lorene Drive was more responsible than Hollywood Undead, even if it was only Lyle who fucked up. 

"I said _no."_ Charlie sternly repeated, hearing none of this as he walked over to Danny, yearning to smack some sense into him but instead, he grabbed the blond by his wrist, holding it firm. Perhaps the pressure of his fingers would check Danny back into reality. 

"As far as I'm fucking concerned, you're honorary Undead, which means we ride or die. No one gives himself up for the others, we either get out or go down together, so get those dumb ideas outta your head." With a rigid, accusatory index, Charlie jabbed Danny in the forehead, absolutely unwilling to let him go through with this stupid plan. 

Speechless, Danny stared at the smaller man, ill-prepared for discovering that Charlie viewed him as an honorary member of their tight-knit group. That… That warmed his heart, honestly, especially when his own bandmate - who he'd loved and _trusted_ \- stabbed him in the back without thinking twice. 

“... Thanks, Charlie. I - I think I needed to hear that.” Danny admitted after a small bit of lingering silence where he didn't have the words. It was probably weak and mushy of him, but Danny gave in to his urge to hug Charlie, gently holding the maniac in his arms... he really needed to hug someone. After what Lyle did, the way he fucked them over, Danny had this aching wound that wasn’t stemming. Lyle was his best friend, or so he’d thought. That needed some reevaluation now.

"There, there, mate." Charlie soothed, carefully putting his working arm around Danny to return the embrace. He wasn't one for being comforting usually but he could feel Danny needed it. Danny hadn't slept at all in the past two and a half days, Charlie bet it made him extra sensitive. His common sense was shot by exhaustion, that may be what birthed his dumb plan.

Charlie remained convinced the poor blondie should catch some zees while he could. 

"Let's let Matt, Jorel, and Johnny sleep for another hour and then we'll show them the texts." Charlie said when he and Danny broke apart, Danny nodding and quickly wiping something from the corner of his eye. Jesus, he looked so worn and exhausted, his eyes were blank, he was jumpy and startled easily. Charlie never knew his heartstrings could be tugged at this way. 

"Danny, I really need you to lay down for a bit." Charlie urged, worried Danny would collapse if he didn't let himself rest. Why was he forcing himself through sleep deprivation? Knowing this particular individual, he took on the guilt of what Lyle did and reasoned he didn't deserve sleep until this was resolved. Someone needed to get it through to this guy that he wasn't responsible for what his bandie did. How could anybody be this damn saintly? 

Again, Danny nodded shakily, the bulk of his tiredness breaking down the walls of strength erected previously. Charlie didn't wait for him to churn another excuse, he took Danny's hand and walked him into the breakroom. He cleared up space on the couch by shoving Matt onto Johnny, trapping Jorel beneath, and Charlie settled in the corner, drawing Danny beside him.

Though initially hesitant to join them, Danny practically collapsed onto the cushions, willingly allowing himself to be pulled under Charlie’s arm. Unbidden, Charlie began stroking his hair, saying nothing, hoping Danny would just fall asleep. 

And lo, Danny was so tired it didn’t take more than a few moments for him to drop off, leaning on Charlie’s good shoulder while the maniac went above and beyond to be tender. At the same time, he asked himself if Jeff ever slept? Probably not, Jeffy was a little bit completely insane.

Charlie also wondered when Dylan would return. He’d been gone for a tick now, but if he was sulking, then he wouldn’t hurry back. He said he was going to the bus station, that would take a while either way.

With all these thoughts going on, another entered Charlie’s mind. They actually might be able to call Marcus on Danny’s phone, now that it worked to some semblance of function. So Charlie took it out of the sleeping man’s limp hand and switched it on, about to dial their manager’s number, when the device buzzed with a new text. It was from ‘Lyle’, so Charlie decided it was his business to check it out. 

He was expecting more of the same whining that bordered on threatening, but there was an image instead. It was blurring, struggling to load with the poor signal, but when it did, Charlie’s heart stopped.

It was a grainy photograph taken in a dark place, but Charlie still made out the horrifying reality of what it was… _Dylan._ Beaten up, battered down, his wrists taped together with one looking broken, his eyes shut, and a cast of dried blood crusting half of his face. Bruises and cuts peppered his skin wherever it wasn't covered by his torn clothes. It was impossible to tell where he was, except in a massive amount of danger. 

Disregarding Danny leaning on him, Charlie sat bolt upright, eyes wide with horror, the phone trembling in his hand as he stared at the image of his injured best friend. They had _Dylan._ Those fucks had Dylan!

Beneath the image was a simple message of a different tone to before.

**‘If we don’t have the shipment this time tomorrow, we’ll cut his throat.’**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this ruins the tense moment, but it's "Let it go" that Dylan was listening to. A++ jam.


	8. coveted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sincerely, I despise how this chapter turned out.

~~_(a multitude of hours since)_ ~~

What a fucking _creature_ of an idea. Absolutely amazing by their standards. And somehow they all reached it as a unit, it's not like the thought popped into one of their heads and they went with it. No, this was a group thing.

They were going to meet Ross and exchange the coveted drugs for Charlie's song. That was the only way they were getting that shit back, right? Going to the cops was never even an option, Officer Conrad would just see it as an opportunity to stroke that hate boner. 

So their solution was simple. Nothing could go wrong - _really._ Now, if Dylan would only stop _inhaling_ the produce-

_“Quit it.”_ Aron snapped for the tenth time, smacking Dylan's hand away from the backpack brimming with the other white powder America was addicted to. 

“It's _my_ gasoline we're burning.” Indignant, Dylan grumbled in response, massaging the back of his hand when he withdrew it. Sort of, he did have a point, they were using his prized Caddy but if he was that distraught over gas, they'd chuck a couple dollars at him and call it even. The answer wasn't snorting their leverage.

"Then I'll pay you back, if half a kilometre is your detriment." Aron was aware Dylan didn't want to hear that, but he said it anyway, drawing the backpack closer to himself so it leaned into his side. 

Huffing, Dylan leaned into the driver's seat, adjusting it into a comfortable half-recline. Waiting in the car with Aron and the drugs, he was becoming increasingly impatient, especially when he wasn't allowed to shoot a couple lines. There was so much of it, would anyone really miss a hit?... Or two. 

"What's taking so long?" Frustrated, Dylan motioned to the seedy apartment block they were parked outside. Why the hell did Lyle live near a section of the city that was nothing but warehouses? Dylan didn't get it.

_"Patience,_ Dilly Cakes, it's a virtue." Aron reminded him but inwardly, he was cursing Jorel for leaving him on Dylan duty. _Best friend,_ in deed. They knew full well how cranky Dylan got if he was bored and they still planted the short straw on him. _Sons-of-bitches._

Giving a low exhale, Aron slung his arm over Dylan's seat, peering towards the apartment the guys went into. While Aron questioned the intelligence of this whole thing, he fully acknowledged this was about all they could do. The only way to save Charlie from heartbreak was to get his song back. As soon as Ross realised he was given the wrong pack, he'd dart here to see what the hell Lyle was doing. They'd be ready and waiting.

_"Fuck_ your _virtue."_ Dylan muttered, sticking a blunt between his lips and sparking a light. If he couldn't get the coke from Aron, he still needed to get drugs into his system. In return, Aron wound the window on his side a crack to let the smoke out, he didn't need to get high off of Dylan's blow. His head had to be in the game. 

"Don't be mad at me because you were scolded for bullying Danny." 

"Don't tell me you actually _like_ that awkward, giggly Mary Sue fuckboy blondie bitch with the fuck-me face and _oh-so-sweet_ chocolate drop Bambi eyes."

"... Well, I don't _dislike_ him." From the corner of his vision, Aron stared at their young ‘un, asking himself where that description came from. Dylan was really losing himself in his unreasonable loathing for Danny and his lovely blond locks. 

“He hasn’t done anything to deserve this from you.” 

Disagreeing, their band baby clicked his tongue, grumbling something in Spanish, each word under his breath. He leaned to look out the side window and Aron did too, sensing Dylan was done talking. In English, at least. 

It was beginning to rain out, it made the darkness seem more cold and miserable. Aron wondered if he should take up the habit of wearing sleeves at some point… _Nah._ Whenever he got too cold to bare, Jorel lent him a sweatshirt or jacket, so why bring his own? 

"That him?" Abruptly, Dylan sat up straight, squinting at the figure approaching from the sidewalk. Aron looked too, frowning, lips parting a fraction in concentration.

_"No…"_ He murmured. That certainly wasn't Ross, not unless Ross lost fifty pounds, a foot of height and bleached his hair to match the colour of sunshine. 

"That… that's _Danny."_ What on Earth was blondie doing here? He had the hood of his jacket drawn, hands in his pockets and chin tucked against his chest in a vain effort to combat the cold. He was quite oblivious to them, making his way to Lyle's front door as none the wiser.

_"Shit."_ Aron cursed, already reaching for his phone to text Jorel a heads up that they were in for unexpected company... but then he noticed something else. Coming the same way as Danny had was a second person, noticeably a more menacing character, the guy Dylan saw throwing hands at Lyle. Ross, in the flesh. And the dude was _fuming._

_"Mierda."_ Dylan was cursing now too, ducking below the window line and pulling Aron down with him to keep them out of Ross's notice. They didn't need to get seen.

Rapidly, Aron typed out a text with one hand while leaning back as far as he could into the chair, pretty sure there was a thousand spelling errors when he hit send. 

  
  


Indoors, the picture defied the peaceful atmosphere out on the street. Johnny and Jorel posted by the doors, guns at the ready in respect for the delicacy of this predicament. This wasn't a simple thrift store purchase, they would be dealing with a dealer who didn't get into the business without knowing how to crack skulls. 

Matt stood with Lyle in the passageway, making certain the guitarist didn't ditch them the first chance he got. They couldn't trust this guy as far as they could throw him. And Charlie aimlessly wandered back and forth between bandmates, having no specific purpose to set him to grounds. Aron and Dylan were lookouts, Johnny and Jorel on watch inside and Matt as their captive guard so all active positions had been filled.

They didn't have a set schedule for when Ross was going to show up, there was time to kill so asking Lyle the hows and whys of his involvement with a Colombian drug cartel seemed smart. Apparently, he was willing to do anything for the necessary funds to record Lorene Drive's first album and that thing about a dead uncle leaving inheritance to be used on it was a lie. Figures. 

Desperate people got into desperate situations, hence why Lyle was dealing drugs off the side in order to kick start Lorene Drive's claim to fame. This was a bitch of an industry, in a certain light, what he did was understandable, but Lyle still cost them their song. Fortunately, he was willing to work with them to get it back so the hard feelings weren't pointed. 

It was a tricky situation, no matter how it was spun.

Thinking it over, Jorel's attention was grabbed by his phone buzzing against his thigh. And while they waited with nothing happening, he figured he could check the message and not miss anything IRL. 

_‘Heads up. Danny's here. Ross on six.’_

It was from Aron. Jorel's brow scrunched, trying to understand what his brother was communicating to him but just as dawn hit, the door opened and Danny Murillo stepped in, pulling his spare keys out the lock. And then his eyes fell upon _them._

They were probably as shocked to see him as he was them. And to be honest, Danny was in for more of a surprise, seeing four ill-reputed men in his friend's apartment, holding him there in a very compromising way. 

"Danny, _what_ are you doing here?" Lyle demanded before anyone could get a word out, his eyes wide and horrified to see Danny drop by.

"I - uh, you vanished from the studio and I-" A nervous tongue flitted across Danny's bottom lip, he glanced at them worriedly, each in turn.

"... Lyle, what's going on?" Danny quietly asked, meeting his bandie's gaze with so much confusion yet trusting him to explain this and do it truthfully. He couldn't even begin to imagine what this was about. What would he think if he knew?

Lyle pulled his arm out of Matt's grasp and made his way quickly to Danny, grabbing him by the shoulder to spin him hastily around.

"Danny, you need to go-" Lyle was seconds short from shoving his confused bandmate outside when the door was kicked nearly off its hinges, struck a wall and that was only the pre-chorus to the whirlwind of wrath that was Ross storming in. Everyone went rigid, even Johnny and he had five inches of height on Ross. But as quickly as it came, the shock snapped and the rebound into action happened. There wasn’t time to linger in motionlessness. 

"Did you think I wouldn't realise you pocketed the coke?!" Ross didn't seem to notice HU and tunnel-visioned in on Lyle, who he reached to strangle but the guitarist was quick enough to jump back and pull Danny along with him. 

"L - let me explain-" Lyle desperately attempted to say but in doing so, left himself open to Ross's fist hitting him in the jaw. It jerked his head and entire body back, it probably would've been worse but Johnny stepped in to subdue the angry drug dealer. 

"Cool it down, buddy." Johnny said but it wasn't a friendly suggestion. He grabbed the next fist that was thrown and shoved Ross away from Lyle and Danny, who he was particularly interested in laying harm on. Poor Danny, he looked so worried and puzzled, at an utter loss while Lyle’s trembling hand rose to cover the mark on his cheek.

"Who the fuck are you?" Ross spat with an ugly leer that ate up every inch of Johnny in a single sweep. "This rat's got bodyguards now?"

_"No_.You have something of ours and we'd like it back, in exchange for your drugs." Johnny explained with all the calm and cool in the world while Charlie crept closer from behind him.

"Please, sir, Lyle accidentally gave you my bag. It has my new song in it and I gotta get it back." Charlie gazed up at Ross in utmost sincerity, it would sway anyone's heart, yet Ross glared at Charlie and he didn't seem so convinced. Protectively, Johnny drew Charlie behind himself, in case Ross decided to lash out again. He'd knock Charlie through a wall but Johnny could stand his ground against a blow or two from this joke of a man. 

"You _accidentally_ gave a quarter of a million dollars in cocaine to the _wrong_ person?" Ross couldn't believe it. His murderous, accusatory eyes set like concrete onto Lyle, who Jorel and Matt had gone to stand alongside. Danny glanced at them both in timid concern, Jorel wished there was a window to explain or at least get him away from here. The last thing they needed was anyone getting hurt in the crossfire, especially the innocent. But did he really have no idea concerning the truth of the money Lorene Drive received? How blindly did he trust Lyle?

Nursing that forming bruise, Lyle was too scared or intimidated or something to meet Ross's eyes, he kept his gaze laid firmly over the floor while he struggled to get his tongue into motion.

"Charlie's locker is right next to mine, I always forget my combination so I pick it - I, uh, I - _they_ have your drugs." Lowering his head more than before, he waved an unsteady hand in a gesture to Jorel and the others. Jorel saw it as his cue to take the reins; he clasped his hands before himself, unafraid as he stepped up to Ross and was met by a fearsome scowl. Darkly, Ross stared at him as if he wanted to cannibalise him.

"And you may have them back if you give us Charlie's song. It's not a lot to ask. Fair trade, really." 

"It won't be that easy, _sweetheart."_ Ross snarled, coming closer, looming over Jorel until he was almost upon him. Disapproving of that, Johnny moved to get some space between the drug dealer and his bandmate but Jorel raised a subtle hand to stop him. Words. They’d try words first.

"And why not? It's pretty cut and dry to me." Jorel replied, tipping his head, shifting the weight of the jet stone plugs in his ears. 

"Because the boss thinks Reust stole from him. He's on his way here right now to deal with it his way." Ross looked over from Jorel, to Lyle. "And the boss don't like _thieves."_

Someone’s timing was on point. Right as those words left his lips, cars could be heard pulling up outside, doors slamming shut before they’d fully put the parking brakes on. Leaning closer to the window, Matt saw something that made a pit drop in his stomach when he checked the street two storeys below.

Lo and behold, there were three vehicles out there, the owners of which were marching up to Dylan’s Caddy confrontationally. And they had guns to boot with the expressions that said they weren’t afraid to use them. Crap. 

Upon seeing this, Jorel was already out the door, taking the steps three at a time to reach the main exit and by then, Aron and Dylan had already gotten out the Cadillac to face their new friends who weren’t in the mood to be so friendly. Against the Undead’s careful planning, trouble just sprung loose and they were deep into the thick of it before anyone could catch up.

“Hold on there, mate.” Dislodging himself from Dylan’s side, Aron moved to stop the drug dealers from storming indoors and getting his friends unaware.

_“Move,_ you _skinny bitch.”_ The husky Hispanic leading the gang snapped but that wasn’t so much a warning as it was the intro to the arm he swung that caught Aron in the middle and sent him stumbling ungracefully. 

_“Hey!”_ Jorel was on them quicker than the rest of his band could run out to meet him, but for all his flashflood rage, it wasn’t a good idea to storm up and punch the guy who laid hands on Aron. As it should’ve been clear from the get-go, this _towering_ brute could hit harder than Jorel, God knows if he even felt the punch before he was dishing out one of his own. 

Jorel was about to have his brains bashed out his skull when Dylan and his lightning-reflexes stepped in to block the fist against his forearm. During that hot second of confrontation, Aron dragged Jorel out from the middle by his wrist, giving him a disapproving scowl. He was smarter than to get rash with fucking drug dealers.

“Fuck off, _estupido.”_ Dylan hissed, face-to-face with the larger man he saved Jorel from. During this time, the others rushed outside, Lyle and an _exceedingly_ puzzled Danny in tow, both of them being walked by Matt. Matt couldn’t help but feel like an underpaid nanny. 

Cocking a brow, ignoring the rest of the band, the dealer swept his gaze along Dylan like he was the most absurd thing to enter his field of vision.

"Te estás poniendo del lado de tu gente, ninõ?" He wore a contemptuous sneer, his smirk revealing his silver grill.

"The _fuck?"_ Dylan screwed up his face in disgust. "Bro, I'm fucking _Mexican,_ not Colombian. Your ass _ain't_ my people." 

"Spanish are all blood." 

_"Back off."_ Breaking up this family reunion, Johnny put his hand between Dylan and the man, forcing distance there that he was comfortable with. Dylan was grateful for it, stepping behind Johnny despite not needing the protection.

"And who the fuck are you?" The Colombian sized up to Johnny, equalling out their height and mass. If they were to go toe-to-toe, it was difficult to say who would win. And reading the air, they may still discover who that was.

"Johnny. You the boss?" 

"You could say that. Soy _Cesar."_ The guy, Cesar, gave a mock bow of fake courteousness. One which Johnny regarded unimpacted. He just wanted to get the ball rolling with this shit and maybe get back to his and Jorel's place before sunset. 

"Give us our shit back and we'll give you your shit." 

"You ain't _serious,_ blanco. You _stole_ from us, you ain't getting off that easy." 

_"We_ didn't steal anything." Irritated, Johnny motioned to his bandmates, at his sides like soldiers surrounding their general but the same could be said for Cesar's goons, and they had more to their count. And yet the ‘fight me’ energy was going strong and hot, like adrenaline. The Undead didn’t back down from a fight, no matter the odds.

Johnny grabbed Lyle by his upper arm and yanked him closer, holding him in front of Cesar as if to offer him on an altar.

"This little _genius_ is the one who fucked up. No one stole anything, it was a fucking _mistake."_ His insistence drove home a certain kind of point but not the kind he wanted as uninterested, Cesar studied Lyle for a brief spell before returning his attention to Johnny.

"You have my drugs?"

_"Yes._ And-"

"Then you _stole_ from me, blanco." Cesar's eyes glimmered wickedly while one of his goons cocked their firearm. This was about to go down and go down _hard._

* * *

_“Oh my God_ \- oh my God, _Dylan.”_ Running across the bus station parking lot, Jorel collapsed onto his knees by the bloodstains when he reached them. Red drag marks messed up with the asphalt and dirt, a broken pair of sunglasses laying in it and Dylan's gun thrown a small distance away. Jorel sank his shaking fingers into the blood, only traces of warmth remaining as it began to clot and cool. It's as if he needed to touch it to believe this nightmare was really happening.

“Those _fucks._ They're _dead._ I'll fucking make them eat their own balls.” Johnny swore violently, pacing, clenching his fists, unable to stand still while Dylan was in the enemy's clutches. His teeth were a set cage, grit so hard it hurt. The normally clear baby blue eyes in his head blackened over with rage. If those bastards laid a further finger on Dylan, Johnny would personally rip them apart cell by fucking cell. 

“That's not enough blood to be fatal.” Matt pointed out but he did so muttering. He would be joining Johnny in slaughtering those _dead_ motherfuckers. 

Observing, Matt stood further away than Jorel and Johnny, he couldn't stomach seeing that sticky mess and knowing it came from Dylan, and Charlie would be the same. Good thing he stayed behind with Danny and Jeff. If they went out as a complete unit, they'd attract too much attention but getting Charlie to stay was a fight. There was nothing he could do for Dylan, he just didn't believe it. Plus, he was injured, he wouldn’t be any good out here.

“They _still_ fucking hurt him.” Jorel growled, lifting his hands and curling his red-stained fingers into fists. A new tremble came over him, this one brought on by wrath. How fucking _dare_ they? Jorel would take twenty-to-life to get his hands on Lyle Reust and Cesar right about now.

“He looks fucking dead.” For the hundredth time, Johnny stared at Danny's glitching phone and on it, the unclear image of Dylan. He couldn't look away from the cuts and bruises and still, lifeless expression upon Dylan's face. The Colombians wouldn't be trying to blackmail them if he was dead, would they? Who the hell was he kidding, these guys were without bounds. No - no, he couldn't be telling himself Dylan was dead, not until there was concrete proof.

An impulse popped into Johnny's mind and he didn't hesitate to indulge; he called the number back, not sure what he would say but he did so anyway. 

Matt and Jorel went quiet for the duration that the flat ringing made rounds, and when the other end was picked up, Johnny could feel the fire already rising up his throat.

“-Listen here, you death-wishing _motherfucker,_ if you hurt him I'll make you loathe your own guts for not killing yourself when you had the chance.” He cursed, promising every word, squeezing the phone so tight it was a wonder if no new cracks formed on the screen.

_“You know what you have to do to ensure your friend's life remains intact.”_ Came the calm, Spanish accented response from the other end, though Johnny could tell Cesar was beyond himself with smugness. _Oh yeah,_ he did such a great thing here, he deserved a prize. 

“We _don't_ have your damn drugs. We _never_ did and we _don't_ know where they are.” His voice, it bore no resemblance to human anymore, what was coming out of his throat was a primal growl. 

_“Then I suppose you should find them, don't you think, blanco? For every hour you miss the deadline, we chop off a piece of your amigo.”_

“You _can't_ do that.” Johnny snarled, though he knew full well that they could. 

_“Do you really want to try me?”_ Cesar asked, causing Johnny to fall silent, say for grinding his teeth. Taking that risk was never an option. Johnny’s quiet confirmed what he verbally didn’t, the victorious grin forming on the other man’s face could be heard.

_“Get to work then. I wouldn’t waste time... unless you like jigsaws.”_

The line went flat. The ringing filled Johnny’s ear but all he could hear was the thrum of his own blood, pumped faster by an anxious heart. The tightness in his throat was unparalleled by a noose. Fuck… he couldn't get that image of Dylan out of his head, and to think it could get worse.

Staggering to his feet, clutching the broken sunglasses, Jorel could have wallowed in a pit of self-loathing for the foreseeable future. He was, after all, the one who sent Dylan out alone, unprotected with a mob after them, but Jorel didn't let himself become a miserable welch. There would most assuredly be time for that later but now, Dylan's life was on a timer.

_"C'mon."_ Jorel growled with a fiery glint of determined anger in his eyes. He grabbed Dylan's fallen gun off the bloody ground as he kicked into a walk, heading away from the parking lot. Why the hell did they even come here? On that teensy chance that the dealers were still in the area? Fate knew they’d never be so lucky.

"Where to?" Matt inquired, joining Jorel in stride. Johnny didn't take a moment to follow in suit, tucking Danny's phone into his jeans pocket. He took care to step around the stains of Dylan's blood that was cooling into the ground. 

"Wherever that fucker Lyle is. We need those drugs or they'll kill Dylan." 

"We don't know where to look for the bastard." Matt observed, at a loss as to where to even start with this search. And there wasn't a lot of time to waste wondering.

And neither Johnny nor Jorel said anything, both aware that was indeed the case. But if Cesar wanted a fight, he was gonna get his goddamn fight.


	9. mollycoddled

~~_(a multitude of hours since)_ ~~

“-Stop _shooting_ at my car! Detener! _Detener!”_ Furious, Dylan yelled above the uproar of gunfire, ready and willing to throw himself in front of his Cadillac to protect her but Johnny stopped him. He grabbed a handful of Dylan’s hoodie and yanked him back behind the protection of the Caddy, the only thing between them and a hailstorm of death. 

“If you get shot, I’ll kill you!” Pointing an accusatory finger that shook from adrenaline, Johnny bit though he was barely heard, the whole world had its voice stolen after the Colombians opened fire. In doing so, they cut Johnny and Dylan off from the others, trapping them on one side of the apparently invaluable Caddy while Cesar jerked-off his trigger finger. 

“That doesn’t make _any_ sense!” Dylan snapped back, hastily reloading his glock while Johnny covered him. Johnny leapt onto his feet, just long enough to pound a series of shots, barely braced for his sawed-off's throwback before he again needed to duck behind their shield. Bullets slammed into the Caddy, some piercing her metal while most bounced off to inflict harm elsewhere. Rapidly, Johnny tracked their flightpath and at the same time, he scanned the surrounding area for his friends. Jorel, Charlie and Aron found themselves holed up behind the cover of a low brick wall, firing back in turns. 

That left Matt with Danny and Lyle, and their sock-and-buskin masked man was doing worse than the rest, barely holding his ground with only him as the able shooter and nothing but a metallic mailbox for protection from the gunfire. He was taking the hardest pounding, the Colombians knew to close in on the weak link. 

Especially Ross, he was flanking Matt, almost upon him. The bastard was going ham on an automatic weapon he didn't have before, a prematurely triumphant grin upon his face.

"We gotta help Matt!" Johnny realised aloud, clumsily loading shells into the barrel of his firearm.

"Todo en buen _tiempo."_ Dylan replied, distracted by firing off more rounds so perhaps he forgot to speak a language Johnny could actually understand. 

While Dylan occupied Cesar, Johnny managed to get the Caddy's back door open, dragging out a brimming duffel bag by the straps. It contained their masks and spare ammo, shit they could never go without, especially since faintly, Johnny could hear sirens in the distance. Understandably, someone called the cops with this firefight raging but _goddammit,_ this just got so much more complicated! 

_“Dyl.”_ Johnny extended Dylan his mask, simultaneously covering his face with his own. They really didn't need to be identified if and when the cops showed up. Unusually obedient, Dylan didn't even hesitate, he shot with one hand and used the other to place the expressionless black covering over his features. 

If Johnny left the Caddy now, he was going to get riddled with holes, he opted to swing his arm far back and hurl the duffel bag to Jorel. Thinking quick, Jorel caught it and began taking everyone's masks out. His and Aron's, Charlie wore his bandana around his neck as it was but Jorel stopped unpacking midway to start peeling his hoodie hastily off.

“What - what the fuck are you doing?!” Aron glanced at his stripping friend, momentarily directing his gaze away from the fight. 

“Aro, I _can't_ stand that you're shivering like that!” Jorel yanked the garment from over his shoulders and threw it around Aron, hiding the tattooed skin that was riddled with goosebumps. Jorel homed in on his bestie being cold faster than he knew who to point his gun at. 

"This is _not_ the time to _mollycoddle_ me!" Aron yelled over the bullets rattling, protesting to the hoodie despite quickly slipping his arms into it and zipping up.

"Just _take_ the fucking sweater!"

"I _am_ taking the fucking sweater!" 

"So whose name are you sticking to when the marriage certificate comes through?" Snickering, Charlie smirked naughtily, his smirk visible for mere seconds before he pulled his bandana over his lower face. 

_"Mine."_ Jorel growled moodily, getting on his knees to shoot a couple rounds again while Aron got his mask on and shut up about the extra layer of warmth. _Stroppy little bitch._ Jorel was just tryna look out for him and prevent him getting a cold on top of probably being shot dead tonight. 

“I am _not_ taking your fucking name.” Aron hissed in response, despite there being _no_ wedding or romantic relationship to speak of. But if there ever were - _hypothetically_ \- then Decker was a no-go. Straight-up, hands down, _no-go._

"Matt's getting slaughtered!" Charlie's shout was muffled by his bandana but the truth of his statement wasn't lost. He was right. The Colombians were almost on top of Matt and he was losing his ground quickly. 

"I'm on it." Aron took off before Jorel could catch any part of him. Heart rate drumming harder than before, Jorel watched Aron duck and weave his way through a firestorm that could end his life if clipped only once. 

"Fucking _maniac!"_ Matt shouted as Aron ran past, redirecting the bullets and Colombians away from them by getting them to chase him instead. And that they did, like a pack of blood hounds. Matt appreciated Aron's efforts, it gave him a window to get to better cover than a beat-up mailbox. 

_"Let's go."_ Matt grabbed Danny by his shaking arm and dragged the man to his feet, expecting Lyle to follow when he started jogging towards the alleyway. That alley lead to the warehouse district, the only way they were getting out was scattering and meeting up later. 

A quad of Colombians went on foot after Aron, another two were starting in Matt's direction but Dylan decided to put a stop to that. Without straightening from a crouch, Dylan awkwardly climbed into his Caddy, struggling to get behind the wheel and not get shot in the process.

"Johnny, _entra!"_ Dylan gestured rapidly for his companion, he did _not_ wanna be outside of this vehicle once it moved. At his beckon, Johnny climbed into the backseats, keeping below the window line while Dylan started his car. Their Hispanic slammed his foot onto the accelerator, the Cadillac leaped into motion, revving full speed towards the wankers who gave chase to Matt. With a solid thud, bodies bounced off the hood and one cracked the windshield. Dylan couldn't steer amazingly when trying to avoid a headshot but he was certainly doing his damage this way.

"Buckle up." Jaw tight, Dylan told Johnny when Johnny clambered between the seats to get into the front. And once there, the man did as he was bidden, this was bound to get very bumpy, _very_ fast. 

_"Badass_ motherfucker!" Laughing, Charlie's eyes beamed bright with the excitement that came from watching Dylan chasing drug dealers in his shot-up Caddy. Yeah, it was quite something, a real spectacle. 

_Fucking madman._

"It's not gonna be so _badass_ when he makes us pay for repairs." Jorel pointed out in between shots from his glock, increasingly aware he was running low on ammo. The bag Johnny threw this way had more but he couldn't reach it and avoid getting shot at the same time.

"He's our baby, it's not fair that he throws his weight around that way." Charlie complained but he was still so pumped he couldn't stop grinning.

"Yeah, _well,"_ Jorel used his last bullet, "That's Dyl." Right as it was getting dire with the lack of ammunition, the Mexican in question slammed the breaks next to them. The screech of metal on metal was blood curdling but the miasma of burning rubber went well with the gunpowder and violence filling the night.

"Get the fuck in!" Johnny ordered them, eyes wide with urgency, reaching into the back to open the door. They were overpowered and outgunned, ten to one, they needed to get the fuck out if they wanted to live and come back for Charlie's song some other way. Not to mention those sirens were getting too close for comfort, the cops would be here soon and that was shit they didn't need.

And Charlie didn't have to be told, he leaped into the Caddy, Jorel tossed the duffel bag after but didn't follow suit.

"What're you doing, Jorel? Get your ass in the car!" Losing his cool, Johnny snapped with another hasty hand motion but Jorel shook his head, refusing to.

"I gotta find Aron." He insisted, unable to bail on this dump while he didn't know where his friend was. The last Jorel saw him, the Colombians were going after him and if they caught up, Aron was done for. Those guys would tear him in half.

For a beat, Johnny's baby blues met Jorel's dark, hastened eyes, he was going to say this was a terrible idea but that was only for an instant. Stiffening his lip, Johnny gave a brief nod and pushed a loaded gun into Jorel's hands. 

"Don't get caught, Jo. I _mean_ it." 

"Aye, aye. We'll find you guys later." Gun in hand, Jorel took off running where he'd seen Aron go and Dylan floored it outta there, curving around the block right as a platoon of squad cars came zooming into sight. The Colombians perceived it the same way as the Undead did, a shit show of trouble, but they didn't get into their cars to escape the law; they did it to give chase to the Caddy.

"Does _anyone_ know where Matt went?" Dylan demanded, agitated, teeth set, taking the turn towards the warehouses so sharply that they were all thrown to the side. They needed to locate their drummer and pick him up with the other two, Lyle was yet in possession of the drug backpack. 

"This way!" Charlie leaned over from the back, pointing in a direction and Dylan took it. God, this night escalated quickly and they each had a gut feeling that it was _very_ far from over. 

* * *

At his core, Aron wasn't an impatient man. How could he be? Whenever he was over at Johnny and Jorel's place, he sat through hours of lectures about whatever Jorel was currently passionate about. For the most part, Aron zoned out, added tiny inputs here and there, and focused on the bags of chips Johnny stocked the cupboards full of, just for him. 

But it was impossible to zone out and let time pass unnoticed while locked up in this holding cell. Well, at least, it wasn't the interrogation room anymore, the walls were less maddeningly bare in here. Yet this was no walk in the fucking daisy sprinkled park either.

While waiting for Marcus and Carlyle to touch up the bail paperwork, Aron paced the cell, driving himself crazy by running every scenario through his head. Not the scenarios regarding his own fate, however; he couldn't stop worrying about Jorel and the others. Bail didn't mean this shit wasn't coming back to bite them in the ass, and for everything that happened this far, his friends were looking at _hella_ time.

Unless Aron rolled over and let himself get pinned with all this, that is. He wondered if he could zone out for ten plus years and not notice the passing of the decade. He may have to, it's not like he actually had a choice here. 

Whatever the authority wanted to do to him, they could and he was powerless. Yay, the _law._ Yay, the _judicial system._

And with all that to weigh on the heart, Aron still found the time to go mental about the call he overheard. Marcus never took his phone off speaker, Aron heard Johnny call their manager but he didn't say a lot before the popping of bullets went off. Was Johnny dead now? Did Cesar's goons kill him? Literally, Marcus wasn't telling Aron _anything._ He was ordered to wait here and sit tight - _as if_ there was anything else he could do - while they worked out the _technicalities._

_Technicalities?_ Did Marcus and Carlyle think Aron cared for those when Johnny could be cold in a ditch somewhere? Though that wasn't practical for corpse disposal, not at all. More likely, they dunked him in hydrofluoric acid or put him through a wood chipper - _oh God._ Horrified, hand covering his mouth, Aron stopped the mad pacing because now he was _picturing_ it. Johnny was a big guy, they wouldn't get him in as one piece, they'd have to cut him up and - and-

"It's like manna for the soul to see you squirm." Said Officer Conrad's bitchy ass voice. Sneering from the other side of the bars, the cop had appeared unheard and was helping himself to an eye-full of a desperate Aron. And as soon as he saw that, Aron did his best to shove his panic under the carpet before he would let this pig feast upon it.

"Go _fuck_ yourself." Aron spat venomously, opening and closing his fists at his sides. He _so_ wanted to bury one right above Officer Conrad's greasy moustache.

"Tempting but pass." Conrad tipped his head, said moustache tweaking responsively to his smirk. Just the look of smugness on that blotchy face was enough to turn the stomach. The hell was he so happy about? Didn't he know Aron was getting out on bail? And yet, Conrad's demeanour suggested the good officer just won the lottery. 

"Bet you're praying your friends pull through and choke up their location." 

Yes but no. _Yes_ because Aron's anxiety over their life status was going to kill him soon. _No,_ as he didn't want them being caught. Not that it was avoidable in the long haul. 

"Don't hold your breath." Lifting his laced fingers on top of his head, Aron narrowed his eyes, keeping Conrad in a captive leer. 

"They'll never be dumb enough to surrender to _you."_ He meant that as a demeaning stab at Conrad, only it wasn't perceived in such a way. 

_"Sure_ about that? Little birdy told me those retards were dumb enough to lose your stoner Mexican to the Colombians." 

Slowly, very slowly, Aron's hands descended from holding his head and lowered to his sides. Unblinking, he stared at Conrad for a still moment before anything clicked. 

_"What?"_ Difficultly, he pushed the word off his tongue, unsteady on the tail end. The foreboding sense of walls closing in was somehow worsened by the contemptuousness in Conrad's eyes. He looked _so_ pleased with himself. 

"I hear that if your friends don't hand over the drugs to the Colombians, they're going to chop your Dilly-dally into itty bitty pieces and feed him to the fish in the bay." Disgustingly, Conrad's grin broadened as if the mental image was jerk-off material. "And he's a tall lad, I bet he'll be dinner for a whole family of fishies."

A gradual hollow of dread struck Aron. That… that wasn't true, was it? That the Colombians had _Dylan?_

"You're _lying."_ Aron hissed, refusing to take this pig for his word. It was impossible.

"You tell yourself that, chickie. But I hear it was _pretty_ nasty... Cesar and his right-hand ploughed their car into Dilly… _You know,_ shit like that can do all sorts of damage. Snap your neck, burst your organs, cave your ribs into your lungs and then you dry drown…" 

It couldn't be, no way the others would let that happen. They were like a pack of wolves, no one got picked off - not that Aron _wasn't_ currently locked up alone. But he digressed. The black sparkle in the cop's eye didn't leave a blissful space of ignorance for Aron. Maybe he was too tuned into chaos to ignore it, maybe he just knew better. He didn't feel comfortable playing dumb to this.

Inside information wasn't to be thrown around the way Conrad did - how could he know that about Dylan? The police shouldn't have that sort of information. 

"You're… you're _with_ Cesar, aren't you?" Aron whispered when reality dawned on him and he was left asking how he didn't see it sooner. The rotting corpse of Conrad's soul could be smelled all the way to the other side of the cell. He was corrupt to the bone, it would be more surprising if he _wasn't_ on the payroll of a drug cartel. 

Not that he needed to, but Conrad didn't say anything to confirm or deny Aron's question. No, his mere response was that greasy, _gross_ grin that could make the coldest of men uncomfortable.

“I hope your friends find those drugs before the Colombians get their meat cleavers sharpened up. Though I hear they prefer the blunt ones.” Running his hand nonchalantly along the bars, Conrad began to slowly walk away, never breaking his and Aron’s shared eye-contact. His taunting steps matched the heavy, solid thumping of Aron’s heart, beating against his ribcage. 

The Colombians had Dylan. Conrad was helping them. They were going to _kill_ Dylan. 

The truth pushed Aron into some sort of out-of-body experience, he didn't feel like he was in his own skin when Marcus returned and ushered him out. Aron was too busy thinking about these revelations to put up a fight when the officer accompanying Marcus slapped an ankle monitor on him, as _apparently,_ he was a flight risk. 

They just wanted him to lead them to his friends and for the nth time, Aron didn't know where they were. 

"Keep your head down. _Do not_ do anything illegal while me and Carlyle figure this out." Pointing a stern finger in Aron’s face, Marcus instructed Aron when they stood outside of the precinct, holding him by his arm as if he was going to run off then and there.

“I got it.” Aron replied in a voice flatlining on the emotion. His gaze was blank, lifeless, and what was beneath it remained unreadable. Only two things blipped through his mind; Dylan was in danger and Conrad was now the official enemy, a mere menace no longer. 

That sweatshirt Jorel gave him the other night hung loosely around his slender body, the fabric swaying in the soft brush of wind.

… Jorel didn’t know that the cops and Colombians were the same opponent, did he? Shit, _none_ of them probably did. 

_“Aron.”_ Marcus pressed, his expression severe, fingers tightening around Aron's bicep. “Tell me you understand with some more _conviction._ I’m putting everything on the line for you guys here.” 

Slowly, Aron’s eyes moved from staring into open space to focus on Marcus. 

_“I got it.”_ He repeated, adding a little bit of feeling behind it to convey home the point. A point that Marcus must’ve suspected, was forged of a lie. As soon as the manager got packing, Aron was off on his own road, waiting no longer than for Marcus to be out of sight lock. 

In his mind, there was a clear image of what to do from here.

Step one; get rid of the ankle monitor. Aron would’ve gone home but the place where Johnny and Jorel lived was closer, he let himself in with the keys Jorel forgot to take out of his hoodie’s pocket before he leant it out. The interior was dark and musty, smelling of trace amounts of weed and cigarette smoke but Aron didn’t let any of that distract him.

He made a beeline for the kitchen, grabbing a long knife and the bag of barbeque chips he started on when he was last here. Ungracefully, he stuffed a handful of the chips into his mouth, wolfing them down as he settled into the corner, his back to the cabinet doors. 

Covered in crumbs, Aron dealt with his hunger at the same time as he forced the knife blade between his ankle and the cheap rubber cuff of the tracking device. The pigs really didn’t give him enough credit, thinking it wouldn’t be a breeze to let himself outta this damn thing.

He started turning the knife clockwise, twisting the rubber cuff around it and quickly, it began to tighten, cutting into his skin but it would snap before he did. He and Jorel had been taking these off since their first overnight stay at the PD, one of many to come. It was muscle memory at this point.

Sure enough, just as circulation was giving out and a red line circled his ankle, the cuff gave with a crisp pop, clattering onto the ground. 

Exhaling quietly, relieved, Aron tipped his head back, shutting his eyes for a couple of seconds before he commenced step two.

Praying the Js paid their internet bill this month, he grabbed the laptop off the dusty coffee table, plunking himself down on the scruffy couch, and began searching for public incident reports of drive-bys taking place early that morning. Before Johnny's call was cut off, Aron heard a car speeding up and gunfire, so he reasoned; _drive-by._

Because this was _California,_ multiple reports popped up on the search browser, he scanned through them quickly and only one stood out. A shooting at six AM on Plymouth Road, the shitty Eastern side of town… now was it a coincidence that Jeffy ran a chop shop down there?

Aron was willing to bet it wasn't. 

Gathering a couple of things, he took a brief detour home to abandon the ankle monitor so as to come off as less suspicious. Not that he didn't already live half of his life at Jorel's but the fuzz didn't know that.

As discreetly as he possibly could, Aron made his way to Jeff’s, vigilant bordering on paranoid for any police trailing him. If they suspected Jeff may be harbouring the others, they'd be watching his shop like carrion birds. Aron needed caution above all else, how fortunate that keeping a low profile was his forte if he so chose. 

Jeff was jumpy as fuck on any given day but a knock on the front door would have his heart going haywire, so amicably, Aron went around to the back, relieved that it was Jorel who opened up. He must have already been on lookout because Aron didn't even knock before the door swung open. 

_"Oh my God,_ you're okay!" Jorel's entire body shuddered with relief, he threw his arms around Aron and hugged him tightly, as if the world would fall apart if he didn't squeeze as hard as he could. 

"Missed you too, Jo." Aron smiled a little when returning the embrace, though he could hardly breathe with how suffocatingly Jorel clung to him, burying his face in the crook of his shoulder. 

Now for step three; get Dylan the hell away from the Colombians. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, the gang's all here - minus Dyl, of course.


	10. up in flames

Matt made certain that Danny's wrist never slipped from his hand as they ran, taking a shortcut through a furniture store warehouse. Danny's racing pulse beat against Matt's palm, unsteady and frantic. Poor guy, he still didn't understand what was going on or why a Colombian drug cartel was going ape shit on them. Hopefully, there would be time to explain later.

The pounding of their footsteps echoed through this rabbit warren of a warehouse, their harsh, stumbling breaths a close second to the noise filling the entirety of the building. 

And there wasn't a nice way to say it; Matt resembled something from a horror flick. With his hair windblown and tangled, a blood splatter across both polar halves of his mask, one side grinning while the other was crystallised into a permanent leer. His clothes were all black, from his combat boots to his turtleneck and fingerless gloves. His guns, twin Berettas, they'd returned home to his thigh holsters, their metal still hot from the fight and ready to use again, should Cesar get in their way.

So with Matt's appearance in consideration, it would be a wonder if Danny felt any safer with him than he did with the Colombians 

"Wh - what do those people want?" Breathless, Danny threw a glance over his shoulder, towards the way they came. And then as quickly as he did that, he stopped running, the sudden jolt nearly tearing Matt's arm from his socket. 

"Shit! _Ow-!"_ Matt let go of Danny, his hand flying to put pressure on his shoulder. He spun around to see what the hell came over the blond, only to then notice what Danny was so intently concerned about. 

"... Where the fuck is Lyle?!" Matt shouted when he realised it was only him and Danny in here, no sign of the guitarist he thought was on their heels. Shit. _Fucking hell!_ When did he take off without Matt noticing?! And - didn't he still have _the drugs?_

The sock-and-buskin masked man was about to back track and find that vermin - _he couldn't have gotten far_ \- when that fucker Ross deemed it fit to interrupt. He came bursting through the door, gun in the air, making it very clear that there was no time to waste. Like a hunter on the prowl, his sights locked on them and a grin formed. 

Forgetting about Lyle for now, Matt snatched Danny's wrist again and bolted, getting behind a stack of crates right as the cracking of bullets began. The sound was a familiar one by now, perhaps even Danny saw it that way, even with his multitude of questions regarding the current situation. 

They nearly ran smack-bang into the back door, Matt shoved Danny ahead of himself and they reappeared under the night sky. Sirens and roaring, racing car engines, the uproar of noise wasn't far from here and closing in, just like the gangbanger on their heels. Ross's footsteps was meters behind, _gaining,_ he could have shot them dead but he didn't. Why didn't he shoot yet? 

Headlights cast upon them as they ran out of the warehouse, Dylan's Cadillac veered into the parking lot, a Volvo gunning it after them at the slightest distance. Matt and Danny needed to get to the others, to the car, otherwise they were done for. 

"Go!" Matt ordered Danny, shoving him again because he kept searching the grounds for Lyle, and while yes, they had to find him, now was not the time. 

Running, Matt was stopped in mid-step, Ross's arm lunged and he grabbed a fistful of Matt's hair, violently jerking him back. Half a startled, pained cry tore out his throat, his hands instinctively shot to free himself. 

Alarmed, Danny whirled around to Matt's scream, eyes shot wide as Ross yanked Matt by his hair as if he wanted to rip it out in chunks. It was a handle to use to control Matt's movements, the gangbanger seized advantage of that, closing the space between them. The muzzle of the gun was jabbed into the drummer's neck, Ross's wolfish grin stretched to the idea of pulling that trigger, and then the Caddy _bumped_ into him.

_'Bumped'_ meaning, of course, that Dylan ran into him, missing Matt by mere inches. Brakes screeching, had Dylan been at top speed, Ross would be a red splatter of no distinction, but he got off easy, merely thrown to the floor with a thud and grunt. 

"Get into the fucking car!" Winding the window, Dylan commanded them, expression urgent behind his mask. 

Rubbing the part of his scalp that felt like it was on fire, Matt jogged around to the back door, pushing Danny along. They needed to take him with now, no matter it may be the last thing the blond wanted. 

"Where's Lyle?" Johnny demanded as Matt shoved Danny into the Caddy against his will, climbing in after. Charlie got out on the other side and went to the dazed drug dealer, sprawled out on the asphalt. He started dragging Ross in the direction of the trunk because dammit, this fucker knew where his fucking song was and he needed to have it back. Ross would answer his questions, Charlie was _sure_ he could be that convincing. 

"Ditched us." Matt replied quickly while over his shoulder, Charlie was manoeuvring Ross into the trunk. From the rear view mirror, Dylan watched him, rapping his fingers on the wheel, anxious for the moment he could put the pedal to the metal. He was _hyper_ in-tune to the cops and Colombians being after them. 

"Where're Jo and Aro?" Matt asked. The trunk slammed with Charlie and Ross in it, Dylan floored it the instant he could, veering outta the area.

"Split up. We'll find-" Johnny cut himself off when he noticed something from the corner of his eye, coming from the warehouse Matt and Danny were just in: smoke. Fire. The orange glow of a growing blaze. 

"Matt, what did you do?!" 

"Nothing!" Matt responded in defense of himself, also noticing what Johnny did. The warehouse was _on-fucking-fire,_ guickly going up higher and higher as they zoomed away from it. When the hell did something catch alight?!

"This is a fucking _disaster."_ Johnny groaned into his hands, holding them over his face. He was so right. 

* * *

_"- Now watch me fuck up this beat with J-D-O-G. Johnny, J-Dog and me, we fuck fifty girls a week!"_

Dylan's lax features screwed as that gravelly Christian Bale voice of Matt's rasped in his ears. Why was Matt singing right next to him? And why did his fucking head hurt so bad? Come to think of it, his entire body was alight with a solid, constant ache. It throbbed in his bones, like tiny sparks of electric conducting through his muscles. Breathing hurt too, as if his ribs were broken, and getting the fingers on his left hand to twitch didn't come without a spear of white-hot fire that made him regret trying it. 

Shit, this was the worst hangover in man memory. He couldn't even remember what he did last night or who he was with. 

Heavily, Dylan's eyelashes flitted apart, he was going to snap at Matt to shut the fuck up, when his brain sluggishly registered his unfamiliar surroundings. No matter how badly his vision blurred and his brain refused to work properly, he still came to the drowsy realisation that he didn't know where he was. 

Some dingy room that reeked of wet black mould and decaying wallpaper. The walls were painted ugly olive green that bordered on yellowish, the aforementioned paper peeling off in large sheets after the dampness fucked up the glue. There was only one window, letting in fingers of dull light through the boards nailed over the broken glass. Say for a splintered desk and old rotting bed frame in the corner, there was no furniture to speak of, not even a door on its hinges. Was… was he in a _crack den?_

Wherever may, Dylan was laid on his back on the floor, its boards filthy with paint chips, dust, and a random assortment of dirt. The shit was in the tangled curls of his hair and littering his clothes, his hoodie would never be the same but that was really the least of his concerns. 

Fragments of memories began to form into a clearer picture. The last thing he recalled… the tracker, the red Volvo, and such a burst of impact that he reasoned he must've gotten ran over. Well, that explained why his body felt shattered. 

It took gaining a bit of lucidity to realise that the singing he thought was Matt being a nuisance was a song playing from another room. Muffled, it was tough to make out the details but he didn't have to, he remembered the lyrics by heart. What remained concerning, however, was that someone was listening to the song and talking to another in a low voice. 

Dylan didn't need to be even twenty percent awake to know how bad this was. Weakly, he attempted to rise but the movement caused chain links to clink together softly and another stab of pain to assault his wrist. 

Tensing, hissing through his teeth, he blinked back the dust particles and looked over to the origin of the sound. Looky, looky, a pair of handcuffs attached him to an old wall mounted radiator, cold shiny metal circling his aching wrist. At once, he could tell that shit was broken. If that weren't the case, it wouldn't be blotchy, black and blue all over, disfigured by swelling and like someone had his hand in a vice. 

His other arm was free, they trusted he wouldn't try pulling out of the cuffs if that meant worsening the break. _'They'_ ... The _Colombians…_ shit.

And speaking of the devil, approaching footsteps could be heard in the hallway. Leaning on his good arm, Dylan painfully dragged himself into a sitting position, upright against the radiator. Although, he almost wished he hadn't, he felt his ribs shift in a way they were _certainly_ not supposed to. It made him wince sharply, a shaking hand fumbling over his side to lay on top of it. Shit, _god,_ it hurt so _bad._ Unarguably, this was among the most unpleasant things to ever happen to him. And that was taking into consideration the time he and Charlie fell through a museum skylight after a drunken walk across it seemed like a good idea. 

"- All I'm saying is, they should cut down on the amount they use Johnny Three Tears and let Da Kurlzz sing more. The harshness of his voice could really work in Black Dahlia."

"You're insane. J-Dog _kills_ it in Black Dahlia but the whole thing comes together _because_ _of_ Johnny Three Tears." Not taking a moment from their conversation, two Latin men Dylan didn't remember ever seeing came in, deep in debate. Were… were they seriously discussing his friends? In a _non-_ murderous context? 

They must not have known he was no longer out, they looked surprised to come in to find he'd moved. They walked into a metaphorical wall, at least their expressions suggested it.

"You're… you're awake." The one on the left said, pausing in the same stride as his companion, both of them with their eyes wide. But then one shot the other an accusing leer.

_"Camilo,_ you said he'd be unconscious longer." 

_"Lucas."_ Camilo elbowed Lucas in an effort to get him to shut up, his cheeks flush with crimson. Dylan was confused, were these _really_ dangerous criminals? 

"Don't talk about him like he's not _right_ there. He may be our captive but he's still _Dylan Alvarez._ Give him his due respect." They were whispering amongst themselves and sending Dylan rapid glances in between sentences, further confusing the Mexican. These fools knew his name? 

"What's going on?" Dylan gathered the strength to ask, surprised by the flatness of his own voice. It came out brittle and weak, not the usual booming baritone he prided himself to be.

_"Dios_ \- I am _so_ sorry about Lucas. He doesn't understand that he's not in the presence of an ordinary lowlife." Camilo explained in the most apologetic way anyone had ever addressed Dylan, and Dylan didn't get it. He just got hit by a car and was chained to a radiator on a crack den wall, and they were sorry for _discussing_ him? 

"It's alright." Lowering his head, Dylan murmured instead of demanding _what the fuck_ was wrong with these dicks. He swallowed another whimper of pain, the aching in his wrist and each breath worsening by the second, with every drop of consciousness he regained. 

"The boss said we hadda tie you up like that," Lucas motioned towards the handcuffs connecting Dylan to the heater. "But we did it as loosely as we could so we wouldn't hurtcha more." 

"Appreciate it." Though he had no idea why either of them cared about his comfort, seeing as how they _abducted_ him. 

Eager yet timid at once, Camilo came forth to kneel in front of Dylan, regarding him the likes of which no bloodthirsty drug dealer could be pictured doing. This was deja vu to the way fans gazed at him, starry-eyed and awestruck. 

…What the actual _hell_ was happening? 

"In No. 5, it's implied that after a bitching night of drinking and partying, Johnny Three Tears doesn't go home and has _intimate relations_ with Mrs Phillips, so I gotta know, did - did J3T _fuck_ Shady Jeff's mom?" Camilo demanded with genuine interest, Lucas settling beside him and awaiting the response in full expectation to get it. The way they looked at Dylan was so the opposite of menacing that he began to wonder if he was actually kidnapped.

"... Not that I am aware." Dylan had seen Jeff's mother, she wasn't Johnny's type. But _Charlie,_ on the other hand, well, he probably fucked all their mothers _and_ fathers. He slapped Aron's mom on the ass once and the worst part; she was into it. 

To Dylan's furthered puzzlement, Lucas and Camilo weren't done asking questions that weren't the interrogative ones he expected. They scooched over closer to him, unintentionally backing him against the radiator.

"And - _if I may ask,"_ Camilo began again, enthusiasm overwhelming his initial shyness. 

_"J-Dog and Deuce_ , are - are they-?"

"They're not dating. They're just friends." Dylan was used to that question, often he asked himself it, but the answer was always a flat no. 

_"Told you."_ Lucas gave his companion a smug, victorious grin that caused the other to scowl. Dylan was beginning to wonder if he got hit in the head harder than he thought and he was hallucinating this whole thing. It made the most sense. 

_"Shut up._ I said they _act_ like they're married, not that they _are_ married." 

_"No,_ you said 'I bet they do each other backstage'." 

"I did not!" 

While they quarreled over the status of Jorel's and Aron's relationship, Dylan's attention was piqued by another set of footsteps in the hall, approaching like the rumble of thunder. And a beat later, a stormfaced Cesar entered and his presence immediately had his subordinates bolting to their feet, expressions alarmed. 

"Didn't I tell you morons not to talk to him?" Cesar demanded, blood on his breath. He scared Camilo and Lucas, that was evident, they suddenly chose to let all of their questions and queries go. 

"S - sorry, boss. It - it's just that you don't get to meet Dylan Alvarez every day-" Camilo attempted to explain but Cesar wasn't having it. Dylan's full title stoked the embers of fire in his eyes, he shoved by his goons and took only two long, fast strides to get to Dylan. Without making eye contact, he swung his foot back and ploughed his steel toe cap into Dylan's ribs. 

Harshly, Dylan's breath caught in his throat, he involuntarily jerked against the radiator, which, of course, sent a jagged spear shooting through the length of his arm. All at once, a brand new rush of pain drilled into his bones - if his ribs weren't broken before, then they sure as hell were now. _Jesus Christ,_ he was half certain the cage of bones caved in and was stabbing him in the lungs every time he attempted to take a breath. 

Cesar saw it would be appropriate to kick him a second time and he actually made Dylan give some kind of a pathetic pained noise. That familiar coppery tang flooded his taste buds, his body trembled without his sayso, everything hurt so much there was no accurate description. 

Electricity needled through his skin, specifically into his lungs and that broken wrist giving him heartache, among the other sorts of aches. There resided a stifling pressure in his chest, like his bones and every muscle surrounding them was trying to crush his organs to a paste. It was a fiery throbbing burn, travelling in currents up his neck and spiking through his body. It radiated in hot layers of pain, hitting every nerve ending. 

Dylan expected a third kick but when it didn't come, he blinked back the humiliating film of tears he hadn't realised formed. Camilo and Lucas stared at him horrified, like they wanted to stop Cesar from beating him but couldn't risk angering their boss. 

_"He,"_ Cesar began, his bad mood sharpening his words to a fault. He grabbed Dylan by a fistful of his hair and forced his head back, exposing the pale, vulnerable underside of his throat. Producing a flip knife from his pocket, he aligned it with Dylan's trachea.

"-Is _not_ our guest and this is _not_ an autograph signing. He's leverage and if his companions don't pull through, we'll have no reason to not cut his head off." As a warning, to Dylan or the other two, Cesar pressed the blade against Dylan's skin until a thin ribbon of blood ran down it. Stiff as a board, Dylan held his breath, fighting the urge to swallow against the razor sharp edge. 

"If I catch you two fangirling again, I'll tear his fucking tongue out and put a stop to that singing you're _so_ fond of." 

Meekly, they gave quick nods, staring at their feet and their humbling was convincing enough; Cesar let go of Dylan with a jerk, rising up on to his feet and wiping the trail of blood off the blade against his thigh. 

A fourth Colombian entered the room before it could go any further and locked eyes with his boss, displaying less open fear than his fellow subordinates. 

"They're here." The newbie said, making an unsettling grin to form upon Cesar's face, growing smug with the glance he shot at Dylan. Dylan didn't feel right about that, something was wrong. _Who_ was here?

"Bring them to me."

As if to answer his question, Cesar motioned with his hand in beckon, to which his under dog responded to by briefly dipping out of the room. And then when he returned, it was with yet _another_ Colombian and between them, they hauled a stumbling man, far too light of skin to be one of them. 

It went without saying he wasn't their kinman. He was bruised and bloody, his sunlight coloured hair partially covering his face but Dylan still recognised Danny. _Danny._ Despite every negative emotion Dylan harboured towards the guy, a pit of dread sank in him when he realised that damn blond was caught now too. _How?_ When? Were the others not protecting him? How could they just let him be picked off? 

And it was grimly that Dylan saw the cut amidst the bruise on the side of Danny's face, imprinted with the outlines of a three. A three like the engraving on the ring Johnny wore on his middle finger. Did… did _Johnny_ hit him? Hit _Danny?_

Dylan didn't understand _anything._ Not _any_ part of what was going on. 

"Your friends made a deal, ninõ." Cesar smirked at Dylan, the Colombians pushing Danny onto his knees in front of their leader. Danny slumped heavily down, barely catching himself on his hands. He didn't look up or even glance in Dylan's direction, further adding to the concern Dylan didn't know he could feel for Danny. 

"He doesn't have anything to do with this!" Dylan snapped more defensively than he expected he was capable. What the fuck were the others thinking?! 

_"Apparently,"_ Cesar began, kneeling before Danny and cupping the side of his face with mocking tenderness. Blank, Danny's eyes were glazed by pain when he reluctantly met Cesar's gaze.

"... He _does._ He conspired this entire thing with his guitarist friend and your amigos weren't so happy when they found out." 

  
  



	11. any friend of mine

Jorel hadn't run like this in a while, heart hammering in his throat, ribs feeling too tight to contain his lungs, yet the necessity to keep going outweighed the intensity of the burning. He needed to find Aron, covering as much ground as fast as he could was the surest way to do that. But the alleyway stretched on for miles and he couldn't see or hear his friend or the Colombians who chased him. Shit, what if they already caught him? Or  _ killed _ him? 

But just as Jorel thought that, he heard a voice familiar to him since childhood. 

"Get the fuck off me, asshole!" It was an angry, fiery command that's ragefulness always made up for how flimsy Aron looked, like the wind could break him. But the wind couldn't and neither could the bruising way the two Colombians held him between themselves. They each gripped a wrist of his, pulling his arms apart while he thrashed and uselessly kicked at them. So they caught him.

One of them made a demeaning comment in Spanish, smirking as he gave Aron's arm a sharp jerk, tugging on him like a rope toy. Aron hissed, curling his fingers into fists and attempting to resist it when the other Colombian joined in on pulling him in opposing directions. They began yanking at him like that,  _ violently, _ deliberately going out of their way to make it hurt.

"Let's see if we can tear his arms off." The one who initiated it snickered, almost dislocating Aron's shoulder with his next go at it. His friend found it hilarious, the way Aron flinched and showed obvious signs of pain, yet refused to gratify them with a single noise to back it up. 

"Skinny bitch like him? Should be easy." The other sneered, leaning back and putting all his weight onto Aron's rotator cuff. Any more and he'd begin to tear the delicate tissue. 

"Let go of me!" Aron kicked and struggled, getting picked up a few times in their effortless goes to hold him down. 

_ "Let go!"  _

"I'm sure the boss won't mind if-" The bang of Jorel shooting him effectively cut him off, replacing his words with a shrill scream as he stumbled back, red leaking out of the hole in his thigh. For hurting his brother, Jorel wanted to kill the fucker but there wasn't any time to dispose of the corpse. 

A second bullet pounded into the other's shoulder, Jorel grabbed Aron and ran before the Colombian could even stagger around or finish the pained cry. The loud shot meant the cops would soon know where they were. The Colombians too. Jorel and Aron had to get out of here -  _ now.  _

And no, it wasn't gay to run hand-in-hand as long as no one was there to comment on it. And this was a matter of life and death so who cared?

“I owe you.” Aron breathed, adrenaline making his eyes big and body tremble. 

“Don’t be dumb. You don’t.” 

"Where're the others?" Aron shot a glance over his shoulder as if looking for their friends down the way they just came. Nothing there except two bleeding drug dealers soon to draw their second wind. 

"I - I dunno." Jorel's response was unsteady from the strain and tiredness he was beginning to feel throughout his body. He wasn't certain how much he'd run while looking for Aron but it felt like a goddamn marathon. 

"I didn't ask them where they were going before I came to find you." He confessed, wheezing over his words. His lungs were on fire.

Smirking flirtatiously, Aron gave Jorel's hand a tight little squeeze as they rounded the next corner towards the warehouse district. God, this was  _ not _ the moment for his flirty clownery.

"Always so sweet, Jorel." 

Quickly, Jorel returned the smile but didn't say anything. There wasn't time as the moment the warehouses loomed into view, they heard the all too familiar yells of the authority behind them;

"Police!  _ Stop!" _

And the coppers being on their very heels almost forced them to push towards the furniture store, as there was nowhere else to run. Somewhere near and nearing ever faster, was the roar of Dylan's car engine, so ordinary in their lives that they would know it any day, any place. But that wouldn't save them now. Getting out of plain sight would. 

Never unlinking their hands, Aron and Jorel bolted across the parking lot with no regard for how gay this looked, ducking behind the cover of an abandoned car when the police decided to fuck chasing them, they were gonna open fire on pedestrian grounds. Good God, they weren't blessed with brain cells. 

Despite the gunfire -  _ a mere drizzle compared to earlier _ \- Aron and Jorel managed to make it inside of the warehouse, intending to hide and slip out unnoticed when the first opportunity presented itself. 

_ "Oh my God…" _ Jorel whispered hoarsely, his heart going 180 in his chest. He was sure he could feel it pounding on his spine, pressed against a tall stack of crates. He didn't know what they contained but they kept himself and Aron out of sight from the cops, no doubt about to enter the building right after them.

"You good?" Keeping his voice low, Aron quirked a brow in the direction of his friend, worried over how breathless Jorel was. But then it was probably nothing other than adrenaline and the immense amount of jogging Jorel had done already.

"Don't worry about me." Was the reply, shallow of breath but otherwise he was fine. Jorel was fine because he got to Aron before anyone hurt him too badly.

Footsteps flooded the warehouse, the police split up to search every inch of it while Jorel and Aron held their inhales, trying to remain unseen behind the stacks of crates. The familiar scent of nicotine began to drift through the room, Aron scrunched up his features when it reached his nose.  _ Smoke? _ Carefully, against Jorel's hand motion, he glanced from behind their cover, seeing only blue uniforms bobbing through the gloom. And the glowing red end of a cigarette in Officer Conrad's mouth.

Shit. Not  _ that _ guy. He'd broken away from the bulk of his men and was busy smoking it up while he searched for the objects of his malice. He hated the Undead like he was getting paid for it, he was going to make this fucking  _ hell.  _

_ "Relly, _ we need to go." Aron whispered as quietly as he could, so urgent to leave that he didn't even hesitate before resorting to the nickname Jorel was none too fond of. Like earlier, Aron grabbed Jorel -  _ just by his wrist this time _ \- and started to covertly lead him through the dark to the side door. If they could get out, they were home-free. 

And just as they shared that thought, 

"Hold it right there!" Conrad shrieked the order like a squealing pig when he spotted them, making out the dim colours of their tattoos in the black. He whirled around and pointed his gun, dropping the cigarette from his lips in his haste.

Not for the first time that night, Jorel and Aron broke into a run. They gunned it out the side door and across the parking lot, right as bullets began to fire after as the cops’ blatant lack of willingness to run them down. Luckily, they weren't shooting to kill but to scare, any less determined men would crumble to their knees with their hands in the air. It never even occurred to Jorel and Aron that surrender was an option. 

But that's because it  _ wasn't.  _

Thank  _ God, _ Dylan was veering up ahead, seeing them and taking a moment from racing around to pick up the rest of their Undead. The only problem; there was a chain-link fence between the Caddy, Jorel and Aron. 

"Shit!" Jorel exclaimed when running at this breakneck speed, he physically couldn't slow down before he crashed into the fence. He curled his fingers around the links and rapidly began pulling himself up, experience telling him exactly where to put his hands or find the next foothold. 

Quickly, Jorel threw a glance over his shoulder to make sure Aron was still there, and sure enough, he was, but so were the cops. They were ten meters behind at most and gaining fast, Conrad had a gun in one hand and a taser in the other but fortunately, Jorel and Aron were almost in the clear. Dylan was right  _ there _ with his car, ready to floor it outta here to a place where they could figure this shit out. 

"Aro,  _ c’mon!" _ Jorel yelled, swinging himself over the top of the fence and jumping the ten feet to the ground on the other side. Aron wasn't quite as agile as Jorel, therefore not as fast as him, but he was close on his heels, almost home when Conrad fired his taser. 

The second the cables hit Aron's vulnerable back, his body locked up and went rigid, convulsing as he fell from the top of the fence, all the way to the asphalt below - where the boys in blue were. The crack of his body on the floor made Jorel flinch before the next thing came out of his mouth;

_ "Aron!" _ Jorel was already clambering onto the fence again to save his brother - not sure  _ how, _ but he was going to, except Johnny threw an arm around his midriff and started dragging him off the fence, towards the car. When the fuck did he get out? Whenever, he struggled with Jorel and fought him to the Cadillac against his stupid efforts to save Aron. He couldn't do anything when Aron was stunned and the cops were already cuffing him, soon to turn their attention back to the remaining Undead. 

"Goddammit, get off me, George!" Jorel screamed, kicking and squirming, elbowing Johnny in the chest but the bigger man was hardly phased. Gritting his jaw, he half-carried Jorel then shoved him into the back with Danny and Matt, grateful that the drummer held him while the door was slammed shut.

Johnny got in the Caddy so ungracefully that he made the whole thing dip on its axles, and then they were off. No one wanted to leave Aron but dammit, what could they do for him right now? The police, the Colombians, losing Lyle and the fucking warehouse was inexplicably on  _ fire.  _ There was a lot more to deal with here! 

Distressed, Jorel squirmed out of Matt’s arms and got onto his knees on the seat, staring out the back window at the warehouses as they zoomed away from them. His worried eyes swept the area anxiously for Aron yet the first thing to catch his attention were the tongues of flames licking out the building he and his friend just came from. What - what the hell? When did it catch fire? The cigarette Conrad dropped into a furniture storage place filled with sofas and cushions and other flammable shit was what popped into Jorel’s mind as an option but  _ dammit,  _ he didn’t care about that! They  _ shouldn’t’ve _ left Aron. They shouldn’t’ve! 

And then the red Volvo and a string of squad cars began to chase after the Cadillac as it pushed 180 through California, filled with six guys who had no idea what the fuck kind of storm the night and coming days held.

* * *

Danny looked less traumatised than Aron expected. Yet he didn’t seem so cute and innocent anymore, his kind, sweet eyes hard with severity. This situation made him as grim as the rest of them despite the fact that Dylan had done nothing but verbally abuse him up until now. 

Standing off to the side, Danny had procured himself a parasitic limpet in the form of Charlie, clinging to him, good arm viced around his midriff. If the poor maniac wasn't absolutely distraught, it could be assumed that his face was pressed into Danny's chest for perverse reasons. But that wasn't the case here, Charlie was a shell of his lunatic self when every thought that moved through his brain was an image of what Cesar was going to do to Dylan. 

"We'll save him." Softly, Danny comforted as if hearing Charlie's concerns. Ever so gentle, he laid his hand over Charlie's shoulder, applying less than half of the pressure Charlie hung onto him with.

"Except we haven't got a fucking  _ clue _ where that rat bastard friend of yours  _ is." _ Matt snapped, unintentionally bitchy, accusatory and there was no one here to blame. Unlike when he was on stage, his entire face was a scowl and not just one side. Clenching and unclenching his fists in their fingerless gloves, Matt paced the room restlessly, unable to root to a single place. 

"Matt, he's  _ not _ my friend." Danny corrected, frowning at the  _ very _ mistaken assumption.

"You know what I meant." Sighing harshly, Matt waved a frustrated, vexed hand. His behaviour represented what everyone was feeling, that anxious, on-edge mindstate where anything but freaking out was impossible. Some of them just did it more obviously. 

Matt and Johnny just got in from searching the West side of the city, in all the nooks where Lyle might usually be found that Danny could point them to. Aron and Jorel were uprooting the South, Danny and Charlie took the North and Jeff refused to come out of his office. It sounded like he was pushing furniture around in there and no one had the time to investigate. 

But this was useless and dumb, Lyle probably skipped town already and they were never seeing those drugs again. Which meant they were never seeing Dylan again, not in one piece. And even if Lyle was still local, Los Angeles was  _ huge, _ they'd be long out of time before they could search all of her.

They were already six gruelling hours in and the timer ticked fast. 

And that fucking pig at the precinct! With what Aron told them, it suddenly made sense why Cesar, posing as Lyle on the phone, was so adamant about pushing Danny to tell the cops where they were. That son-of-a-drug-whore was the messenger for the Colombians, he'd go running to them with the location as soon as he had it. But Conrad was only a cog, he wouldn't know where they were keeping Dylan because if he did, the Undead would already be torturing him for that information.

Through the back door, Aron came in with Jorel and Johnny was moderately surprised they weren't holding hands. Ever since Aron found his way to them again, he and Jorel were attached at the hip, perhaps even more obsessively than before. 

But they weren't leaping for joy at their reunion after the initial moments of elation. It was impossible to be happy when Dylan's death loomed ever nearer, closer by the passing of each hour wasted on this futile search.

Johnny didn't ask if they found Lyle, their grim expressions said it all. Exhaling helplessly, he ran his widened fingers across his face, creased by worry lines. 

"Nothing." Jorel quietly murmured, eyes downcast. Putting a supportive arm around his friend, Aron stood beside him, their failure weighing on his heart just as heavily. He too found it difficult to lift his gaze.

_ "Goddammit!" _ Matt lashed out at the coffee table, slamming his boot into it and sending the flimsy thing crashing across the room. The burst of noise made Charlie start and the rest of them flinch, afraid of what Jeff would do when he saw his things getting kicked around. But that wasn't the crux of it. None of them had ever seen their beloved drummer so angry and breaking things as a result of it, though he couldn't be held to fault. 

This had everyone's nerves stretched tauter than a bowstring. 

"There  _ has _ to be something else we can do." Matt's hands carded through his thick forest of curls, twisting to pull at the strands of it in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure in his skull. 

"You got seven kilos of coke just  _ hanging _ around that we can use?" Johnny dryly inquired, ill at need for a response. If anyone had any idea what they could alternate to, they would've done it hours ago. 

"What if we make them think we have the drugs?" Danny suggested but Aron put a damper on it, shaking his head and sucking his teeth.

"Won't work. They'd never tell us where Dylan is unless we give them at least  _ half _ of what they want first. They're businessmen, blondie, it's how this shit works." Aron explained it and he was very right, seconded by Jorel's affirming nod. Danny was capable of a lot of things but he didn't understand these people. Jorel, Aron and the rest, they’d spent their lives around men like Cesar, their means and methods weren't alien.

"Then  _ what? _ We won't find Lyle in time." Danny went on, to which it was Aron's turn to agree. They agreed, reality was an ugly,  _ ugly _ son-of-a-bitch.

"If we knew as little as where they fucking  _ are, _ we could kill those motherfuckers before they kill Dylan." The drummer worked his hand around his fist and cracked his knuckles, eyes glazed over by murderous intent. 

"Except we're  _ outnumbered _ and outgunned -  _ severely."  _ Johnny interjected, rolling his eyes at Matt's lack of consideration. "Even if we knew where to pull up, if we had the  _ firepower, _ we can't go in guns blazing and run the risk of them shooting Dylan in the head."

"Then  _ what?  _ We twiddle our thumbs and wait for them to start sending him back in pieces?" Matt's jaw tensed with the bite, so tight he may have pulled a mastication muscle in the process. He didn't  _ want _ to yell and be a bastard to his friends, this shit just boiled up and he couldn’t help it. 

"... So we need someone inside." Lifting his chin from where he held it between his index and thumb, Danny looked to them, his dark eyes alight with the spark of realisation. And accompanying it, the first detonation key of a  _ plan. _

"That's  _ exactly _ what we need, Danny." Johnny said, wishing it could be that easy. Danny's suggestion would be ideal, to have someone who could make sure Dylan was okay and take apart Cesar's fortress from the inside while they took on the out. 

But how the hell was that supposed to happen? Cesar would never just  _ let _ one of them dance in any sooner than he'd talk to them again before they had the drugs. Which they weren't getting any time soon.

Or ever.

"But it would never work. One of us can't get into a place if we don't know where it is." 

"Unless we give them Lyle." Danny said, gaining confidence in his idea. "Or -  _ since we don't know where he is _ \- we substitute him with the next best thing." 

Johnny raised his eyebrows, cocking his head. Danny sounded like there was a genuine point he was leading them to, and if he really had a solid plan, everyone was ready to go for it. Anything to save Dylan.

"Which is?" 

Removing his arm from around Charlie, everyone followed Danny's hand as he motioned to himself, pointing to his chest.  _ What? _

"Me." He simply stated, offering no further explanation where it was due.

"You got a quarter of a million dollars worth of cocaine stashed away somewhere, hmm, blondie?" Unamused, Aron smirked sarcastically, not seeing where the dots connected to with this. And to be honest, no one else did either. 

"No but think about it; I'm part of Lorene Drive and Cesar saw me at the warehouse with you guys. He knows I'm running with you, we could easily convince him that I and Lyle conspired together and I know where the drugs are. Just tell them I know their location, they'll drag me back to their hideout and I'll find Dylan-" 

"-And then they torture you for info you don't got." Unimpressed, Jorel cut in, crossing his arms though one was through Aron's for some  _ completely _ heterosexual reason. Perhaps he clung to Aron because he was worried about losing him too - or  _ again. _

"It's outta the question, Murillo." Johnny sternly stated, leaving no room for the blond to argue with him. They only  _ just _ got Aron back, they may not be able to save Dylan, so in what  _ universe _ would they consider throwing Danny into the water with the sharks? This blondie was tripping.

"No, he's right." Sniffing, Charlie ran his hand across his eyes when he finally turned away from hiding his face in Danny's chest. Flat, his voice remained quiet, drained of his usual spark of enthusiasm and replaced by uncharacteristic stringency. He didn't look up and meet his friends' gazes. 

“It’s the only plan we have. Dyl’s the only Dyl we have. We gotta do it.” 

“Jordy, I love you, but  _ don’t. _ We’re not sacrificing Danny like he’s a fucking lamb.” Vexed, Johnny explained, clear strain and stress in his voice. And his eyes. His  _ face, _ even though he hid half of it with his hand, squeezing as if it alleviated something that he couldn’t take. The silver signet ring on his finger caught a ray of light, a quick flash travelling along the sloping curves of the engraved number three. 

“It’s not sacrificial; I’m  _ offering.  _ I’m  _ volunteering.” _ Danny also stepped away from the wall, coming to stand centre-stage in the middle of the room, looking up at Johnny in a serious light.

“I know we’re not in a band together but we’re in  _ this _ together.  _ Jorel _ struck off alone to make sure his friend was okay,  _ Aron _ dealt with the cops alone,  _ Jeff _ put himself on the line to let us stay here,  _ Dylan _ went to get rid of the tracker, and we’ve done a number of things on our own -  _ solo _ \- to contribute to the good of  _ everyone _ here.” Danny motioned to the Undead with a wide sweep of his hand, in Johnny’s face to deliver his point all the way home but everyone was getting it.

“-And  _ now _ Dylan’s with those fucking murderers  _ alone.  _ He needs help.  _ I’m _ help. I don’t care that he hates me or my fucking hair, it’s not a justifiable reason for me to stand back while he’s getting tortured to death.” 

Johnny stared at the blond for a silent second, letting it sink in what he said and to fully acknowledge Danny for the gemstone he was. The guy was a damn saint to even suggest this and honestly… what else could they do? This might be their literal only option at this point. But, _ of course, _ it wouldn’t be as simple as pushing Danny into Cesar’s arms and that’s that. There were so many things to work out.

Tipping his chin up, Johnny lifted it from his fingers, regarding Danny in consideration though his mind was already made up. They were doing this, apparently.

“We’ll have to smooth down the rough edges. Among other things, make it look convincing; Cesar won’t believe we found out you’re a double-crosser if you’re lookin’ as pretty as a choir girl.” Johnny studied him for his reaction to this information and although Danny knew what this meant, he sucked it up and nodded.

“I know. Do what you gotta do.” The blond said, fists clenched and muscles tensed to ready himself for what he was aware was coming. What  _ had _ to come to make this swallowable. 

“I fucking  _ love _ this dude.” From across the room, Aron announced with conviction he wouldn’t take back. Anyone willing to take pain for a friend of his was automatically  _ a friend of his. _

“For this, I do too.” Johnny admitted, closing and unclosing his fingers, wishing it could be as easy to do this as it was hitting someone who actually earned it. But it had to look real.

Over the next ten minutes, they put together the rest of their plan, pieces falling into place quickly when they had a skeletal system of an idea of what to build it upon. This… this could  _ work.  _

So while Matt and Aron went forth to take Danny’s arms and hold him still as Johnny reluctantly prepared to whip a fist across his face, Jorel decided to find out what the fuck Jeff was doing behind the door of his office that meant he needed to haul the furniture around. Charlie followed Jorel, unwilling to stay there and watch that the rest were doing.

The squeak of the hinges as Jorel turned the door back almost masked the solid thump of Johnny’s knuckles on Danny’s cheek and the muffled noise of pain. Matt and Aron held onto Danny tighter despite the unlikeliness of the blond going anywhere. He wouldn’t. He could take a punch or a whole-ass beating if he had to.

“Jeff… what the fuck?” Jorel didn’t even know what to say when he stepped into the emo’s office and was faced by a stripped floor exposing the beams beneath, the floorboards themselves stacked in the corner. Jeff… Jeff fucking tore his own floor out. And amidst the woodchips acting as thermal insulation, was the man himself, digging up something he’d hidden beneath.

“Whatever you faggots are doing,” Jeff began, out of breath after all the work he did to rip up the flooring with a crowbar. His fingers came across what he’d been looking for and he pulled out a dangerous looking shotgun, matte black with the serial number filed off and the barrel sawed. 

“... You’ll need  _ guns.” _

Jorel leaned closer and noticed there were tens of guns in there, stashed away until the moment Jeff might find a purpose for them. Glocks, AK-47s, pistols, you name it, Shady Jeff probably bought it off the dark web and stowed it. And now it was resurfacing and making Jorel worried about how much of this building’s infrastructure was actually illegal weaponry. 

Regardless, they needed to go save their boy now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope y'all had a bitching Christmas.


	12. when in doubt, befriend the enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My timelines don't match for shit and I'm okay with that 🤘

There's a reason Officer Conrad never made detective but if he didn't _once_ think that the Undead would show up on his door, he was tripping mad. _Of course,_ they knew where he lived. Charlie found that out a long time ago, when he and Dylan paintballed the guy’s house as revenge for confiscating their weed.

So with knowledge learned from ventures past, Johnny, Aron, Danny and Jorel were behind the door when the man himself pulled it open. Their recruitment for this one was all very methodical; Johnny, because he was fucking scary and muscle might be necessary. Aron, because he was the one who found out about Conrad's conspiracy. Danny’s reason for being there was obvious; he was their leverage. And Jorel… well, his presence wasn't necessary but he refused to let Aron be out of his hand's reach. Poor bastard was probably traumatised after having spent _any_ time at all away from his homeboy. 

And it was, in fact, Jorel who reacted first when the door parted to reveal Conrad; he kicked the guy right in the balls the instant opportunity presented. He slammed his steel toe cap into the weak spot God installed into man and to follow, a swift punch to the jaw kept the cop from yowling too loud. Jorel ploughed his way in like a 5’10 freight train and the rest followed after, shutting themselves in. 

“If you _ever._ _Tase._ My friend. _A-fucking-gain. I'll-!_ ” Murderously enraged, Jorel screamed every word in between smashing his boot into the officer at his feet, which is when Aron intervened.

“Settle down now, honey.” From behind, he put his hands on either side of Jorel's shoulders and drew him back, lightly laying a peck on his temple. Stormfaced, Jorel's entire being shivered from rage but he stayed put despite having more than enough strength to rid himself of Aron's grasp.

Johnny rolled his eyes. _Sure_ those two were straight. _Totally_ nothing gay going on there. 

“A’ight, maggot, you're going to help us.” Johnny sternly said when he reached for Conrad and dragged him off the floor by his collar, holding him upright with a single arm. He shivered from the pain Jorel just inflected but it couldn’t get in the way of what a colossal dick he was.

“You're going to _prison,_ Ragan.” Conrad spat at Johnny's face through his split lip, spraying speckles of blood this way and that. Fortunately, Johnny's mask protected him from it.

“Oh, you _think?_ Who here's gonna arrest me?” He swept his hand across the room in motion to the three on his side and the absolute _lack_ of members on Conrad's defence team. They had Jeff’s guns, they had motive and they had the will to do something bad.

Realising his fate was in their hands and they had the strength to squeeze, Conrad's frown solidified into a deeply resentful scowl. 

“The fuck do you want?” He demanded, not so dumb that he didn't realise the stars weren't aligning for him. Huffing in warning, Johnny dropped Conrad in favour of roughly grabbing Danny by his arm and yanking him over, making the blond stumble. Johnny hated that he needed to be so violent, curl his fingers into Danny's bicep until they must be causing bruises, but this _had_ to be convincing. 

_“_ We don't have Lyle Reust but _he_ knows where that fucker stashed the coke.” Johnny pulled Danny in front of himself like a goddamn sacrificial offering he was presenting. For realism's sake, Danny's wrists were bound with cable ties that Jeff owned an alarming amount of. The ties had begun to cut into his flesh, rubbing away the first layers of skin. _Authenticity._

“You… conspired with Lyle?” Surprised, Conrad ran his gaze quickly up and down Danny as if he couldn't believe sweet little Danny Rose was capable of a bad thing. More people needed to know this guy dismembered a corpse.

“Not about getting into bed with the Colombians but the _rest?_ Yeah. Who doesn't love a shit tonne of money?” Danny's response was cool and calculated to match the voice of a man who knew he was caught. He surprised Johnny by how convincing he sounded straight off the bat. To-die-for vocals, _amazing_ physique, willing to do anything for friends, _and_ an Oscar-winning actor now too? What couldn't he do with flying colours? 

“... Didn't think you had it in you, Murillo." Conrad observed. "Never trust the pretty ones.”

Danny replied non-verbally, with an unamused smirk which Johnny deemed fit to wipe off his face by ripping his head back by the hair. He ignored the tiny yelp and pretended this was someone he _wanted_ to hurt. Like Conrad. Or Cesar. Or Lyle. 

Dylan better fucking _fall in love_ with Danny for willingly going for this.

But that is to say, Johnny did _not_ expect the harsh hand in Danny’s hair to be met by almost getting his knee kicked in. Danny rebelled with the heel he slammed back into the joint of Johnny’s leg, purposefully just hard enough to not break it but it sure as _hell_ stung. 

_“Fuck!”_ Johnny exclaimed, unable to straddle his tongue when the burst of pain exploded and he staggered back, partially doubled over. His eyes instinctively squeezed shut, winded by how fucking _strong_ Danny actually was. Now _there_ was a man who never skipped leg day. 

“Touch me again and you’re not getting _anything_ from me.” Danny hissed, standing above Johnny, eyes metaphorically glowing red. One could actually think that hatred was the only thing that flowed between them but if Danny had to suffer for authenticity, then it was only fair if someone else did too.

Speaking of,

Jorel bolted forth, grabbing Danny at the base of his neck with one hand and sweeping his legs from beneath him with his foot. The crash shook the entire house on its very foundations, making the pictures on the wall jostle in their frames. 

“Try that again and I’ll rip your eyeballs out through your mouth.” Jorel growled, pinning Danny to the floor, fingers circling his throat like a collar and a knee pressed to his breast bone. Wincing, Danny took a few deep breaths to moderate the pain and glared up at Jorel, real annoyance in his eyes. Was the rugby tackle _really_ necessary? _Really?_

Limping over, relying his weight on the leg that wasn’t nearly bashed in, Johnny hauled Danny upright again and shoved him in Conrad’s direction. 

“So we got a deal? This goddamn bitch for Dylan. He knows everything Lyle does, he’s essentially the same catch.” 

Looking Danny up and down one last time, Conrad gave a hesitant nod, convinced by that little power struggle they put on, that all was exactly as they claimed. 

“I can’t speak for Cesar but I think he’ll accept.” The cop said, reaching over to shift guardianship of the blond from Johnny to himself. Conrad was being as cooperative as he possibly could, fully aware of the threat that they’d kill him if he didn’t comply. And to be honest, they might still be returning for his head later. Scumbags didn’t cross the Undead left and right and then get out the boiler unscathed. 

“Beautiful.” Johnny nodded, unworried that Cesar wouldn’t be happy with this change in dealings. He had confirmation that it was alright. “I already called the man, he’ll take Danny and assuming he doesn’t lie through his teeth, all’s well.” 

“Then this all worked out just swimmingly for you bastards.” Conrad was really pressing his luck against a thin wall here but as long as he was their mailman, they couldn’t knife him. No, the pig would deliver Danny to Cesar and the Undead would set the rest of their plan into motion after that. It would work. _It would work._

When they parted ways with Conrad and Danny, no one felt at ease letting their blondie out of sight but they couldn’t do anything else. Cesar wouldn’t kill Danny for as long as there was a use for him. Danny’d give the fake information away willingly, Cesar would send his men to regain the ‘coke’, and from there, it was up to Matt, Johnny, Jeff, Jorel, Aron and Charlie to see to the finish line. They could do it. This would work. 

It needed to. 

Hopefully, Matt and Jeff were where they were supposed to be.

* * *

Danny guessed he should be grateful that Cesar didn't beat the ever-loving fuck out of him. And even with the couple of hits he dished out, he didn't hit as hard as Johnny. The side of Danny's face had been throbbing ever since the initial punch from Mr Tears, he was worried his cheekbone might be fractured. Plus, the number three was now imprinted in his flesh and it'd be an interesting story his mother would demand to know. Hopefully, it wouldn't scar and maybe she never had to see it.

But _yes,_ he should be grateful Cesar didn't lay severe hurt on him. And he was - _really._ He told the guy the feigned location of the drugs that didn't exist within his possession, they went to get them about twenty minutes ago, and now the Undead would handle the rest. Simple. Easy. Danny was left to hang out in this musty room with Dylan, hand-cuffed around the wrists and ankles - _for extra measures._

The blond tried to stay on the other side of the room in respect of Dylan's hatred of him, but he had to say, it was getting difficult to ignore the man's obviously mounting pain. Dylan's teeth seemed to be constantly clenched, his breaths unsteady and too controlled to come off as _natural._ Every so often, he'd close his eyes and disguise the wince as a long blink. And then there was the shivering, small shaking that was his body trying to reason the pain of a broken wrist and God knows what other injuries. 

Danny turned to prayer in the hopes that the others would bust in here soon, Dylan's condition wasn't going to get any better. He was hit with a fucking _car,_ any number of things could be wrong with him internally and they had no way of knowing. 

“Hey, Alvarez,” Danny said from across the room when Dylan's head began to hang. “You're dropping off again.”

_“Fuck you.”_ Dylan muttered, low yet aggressive, unwilling to open his eyes. Yet he understood the importance of not falling asleep. Grinding his jaw, he uncomfortably shifted his body, stiffly stretching out his limbs what little he could without hurting himself. Not that he could even _breathe_ without pain. 

“We should talk about something. It'll help you stay awake.” Danny went on, unaffected by Dylan cursing him out. By now, he was used to it and he'd be one weak ass bitch if he cried over curse words. 

“I _don't_ wan’ talk to you, puta.” For that, Dylan parted his eyelashes a sliver to let the venomous glare set in. Danny was gonna go off on a limb and assume that Dylan was too wounded to be cordial and secretly _really_ appreciated what he did for him here. 

“... You know my hair isn't naturally blond, don't you? It's black.” Danny should make that fact known, in case there was any way it could alleviate Dylan's burning hate for him. It was about his hair, wasn't it? His _fucking_ _hair?_

“... Ve y ahoga una _polla.”_

Scoffing, Danny rolled his eyes, scooching around full axis to face Dylan.

“Telling me to go suck a dick isn't how you end a conversation.”

At his response, Dylan suddenly opened his lids fully, straightening a fraction, the look of horror white upon his face. A thousand questions darted through his mind at once.

“You… you understand _Español?”_

“Yes… Well, not _fluently_ but I get the basics.” The blond shrugged nonchalantly. It wasn't a big deal, Spanish was a universal language, except Dylan probably didn't expect him to have known the meaning of the insults he slung in his mother tongue. Wasn't the point of insults to offend someone? How did that work if there was a language barrier? 

After that revelation, Dylan fell silent, leaning against the radiator he was chained to and staring at the boarded-up window, his gaze less than alert. He was thinking about something and Danny was willing to let him mull in solitude; as long as his gears turned, he wasn't going to pass out immediately. So Danny was content with that. 

“... I don't hate you for real.” The Hispanic quietly said after a good while of no verbal exchange. But he didn't deem it necessary to make visual contact or even adjust his position.

“Could've fooled me.”

“I… I don't trust new people.” He continued despite Danny's interjection, unbothered like he was talking to himself. But he wasn't and it sounded like this might be the first conversation Dylan was initiating that might not end in cussing Danny to hell. 

“How come?” The blond inquired, careful with his words so as to not ruin Dylan's illusion of monologuing to himself. 

“... They're unpredictable and they're dangerous. You come off as nice and sweet, and people who put on that show are hiding the most fucked-up shit.”

Momentarily focusing on the pack of dust bunnies on the floor, Danny chewed thoughtfully on his bottom lip, ingesting the explanation.

“Uh, I hate to break it to you, Alvarez, but I'm kinda harmless.”

“Shit, you _really_ believe that?” Dylan _finally_ returned his attention fully to the other man in the room, and he did _not_ look very at-ease with what Danny said. 

“You know how to do all that serial killer shit - like cutting up a corpse and making acid to melt it with. You just _went_ along with all this from the get-go, the shootouts and running from the cops. You tag along for God knows what sick thrills you get from this. You're the only person who's in this situation because he _wants_ to.” The more he spoke his mind, the more Danny began to get it. Like, truly _get it._ Those were some very reasonable concerns for one to have but there were still issues here.

“I'm not a serial killer, I just paid attention in anatomy class and chemistry. And for most of this venture, it's been physically _impossible_ for me to leave, you guys wouldn't have let me if I tried so I decided to just not try. Make things easier for everyone.” And that was, indeed, the case, right down to every syllable. Yet there was still this empty space in mutual understanding. 

“But… you hated me from the second I stepped into the break room.” Which was before any of the aforementioned things happened. 

“That's because I'm a fucking _dick,_ man.” He openly confessed, the exasperation behind it causing a tiny smirk to form upon Danny's lips.

“At least you're self-aware, Alvarez.”

“Why… why do you keep callin' me that, homes? You know my first name.”

Danny frowned. Had Dylan _already_ forgotten what he said no less than three days ago?

“Umm… you _told_ me I'm not allowed to call you Dylan. Apparently, only your friends can.”

That was the first time Danny had ever seen Dylan smile, a faint smile but genuine nonetheless, not that sardonic smirk thing that had been possessing his face thus far. 

“Don't worry about that. You're good.”

Danny was fully in on the fact that Dylan was slightly bordering on completely delirious off the pain, but he'd take what he could get. This might be Dylan's way of letting him out of the scorn zone… _maybe?_ Perhaps he was actually appreciative of the lengths Danny went through for him. 

Adjusting his position again, Dylan stretched his leg out and pulled the other to his chest, making himself wince by the little he dared to move. He hissed through his teeth, covering his side with his hand as he leaned his head back, closing his eyes. _Fuck,_ he was so tired, the spears of white fire the only thing keeping him awake.

Or that _and_ Danny's persistent insistence to keep him talking. Even now, the second Dylan shut his eyes, the blond bumped him with his sneaker.

_“Hey._ Stay with me, Dilly. _No_ sleeping.”

“I said you could call me Dylan. I draw the line at _Dilly.”_

“Dylbug then.”

“Only Jordy gets away with that.” Dylan murmured, once again batting his eyelashes apart but every time he did, the struggle was worse. 

Taking Dylan’s growing grogginess to notice, Danny rolled onto his side to pull his linked hands to his front, grunting from the effort it took to get his legs through the loop of his arms. 

“... What’re you doing?” The Hispanic asked in a mumbly tone, barely able to keep his head straight on his shoulders. For a couple of moments, he watched Danny struggling to get the cuffs in front. 

“Coming over there.” The blond said when he finally was successful, awkwardly crawling closer to Dylan. God, life was a lot harder when your hands and ankles were chained together. But regardless, Danny managed to sit beside Dylan, his spine pressing on the cold radiator Cesar attached Dylan to by his obviously broken wrist. Fucking sicko.

“I’m gonna yell at you every time you try to fall asleep.” Danny informed him while Dylan put all his recent grudges away, slumping against the other and laying his weary head upon Danny’s shoulder. 

“Your voice sounds a lot less grating when you’re singin’...” Was grumbled into Danny, moody yet it was completely for understandable reasoning. 

“You’ve heard me sing?”

“Yesh… on the radio earlier…. you sing really good. Like an angel or sumthin’.” He sounded so incoherent, out of his wits, but Danny accepted the compliment by smiling and looping an arm around Dylan - except he couldn’t since his were tied, so he ended up giving the man a loose hug, easy not to jolt his broken bones. As recently as yesterday, Danny would’ve been violently murdered for making this gesture.

“We’ll have to do a duet at some point. Your voice is sexy as hell, I bet the deepness would go really well with my high notes. The contrast’s to die for.” 

“When’ve you _ever_ heard my voice?” Frowning, Dylan lifted his face a little out of burying it in Danny’s shoulder. His frizzy black curls tumbled down to frame his face on either side, brow damp with a cold, feverish sweat. 

“I _know_ who you guys are. I’ve heard your songs, my favourite is probably Paradise Lost or - for a lighter mood - _No Other Place._ You sound so fucking amazing in that one.” 

“... Aron does the real leg-work for No Other Place.” 

_“Bullshit!”_ Danny exclaimed. He wouldn’t say that Aron wasn’t good there, he certainly was excellent, but his contribution was the fuel to Dylan’s fire. 

“I’m gonna tell you something very embarrassing. When I first heard you singing, in Bottle and a Gun, I believe, I.. uh…” Embarrassed by the mere memory of what happened, Danny wore the most sheepish smile, blowing a lock of blond off his brow before he could continue. He decided to just blurt it out as quickly as he could and rip the bandage off.

“... I tried to mimic you but my vocal cords couldn’t handle the deepness of your voice and I ended up straining them. Any recording business we had going on needed to be put on halt for two weeks because of that.” Danny wished he never had to retell that story but it was worth the humiliation thats burn reddened his cheeks because it made Dylan laugh a little. A careful laugh, cautious on the broken ribs, but real. 

“You’re _such_ a fuckin’ loser, ese.” 

“I’ll have you know, that shit hurt - _a lot._ I couldn’t even drink a glass of water without it feeling like someone was knifing me in the trachea.” 

“That’s... whatcha get for tryna be the Funny Man.” 

“If ever I try again, God strike me down.” 

“I… I’ll ask him to. J… Johnny and I are friends, I’m sure he’ll be forthcoming.” 

“I consistently forget that’s Johnny’s real identity.” Danny smiled, almost oblivious to their predicament while he toyed with Dylan’s tousled hair. But then he was reminded again when Dylan suddenly caught his breath as another wave of pain swept over him, enough to pass out from, and blond made it a point to keep him awake by talking.

Except the first friendly banter among them was interrupted when those two Colombians Cesar left in-charge popped by the door to make sure they were behaving themselves. Lucas and Camilo, right? They were hesitant to come in but every time they did these check-ups, Danny noticed the way they stole glances of Dylan, as if they were his star-crossed lovers. Camilo was wearing a _Notes From The Underground_ T-shirt and a while ago, his friend was humming the unmistakable tune of No. 5. 

They were fanboys, Danny would know the likes anywhere, and he’d been waiting for them to return rather eagerly. 

Because he had an idea.

“... It’s a shame you fellahs broke Dyl’s wrist,” Danny began before they could leave again, catching their attention. “He’s right-handed, he could’ve written you guys an autograph or two if you hadn’t.”

_“-Whoa!_ We’d _never_ hurt _Dylan Alvarez.”_ Camilo leapt in to defend himself and his friend, almost stepping on Danny’s words in his hurry to do so. Even while he was yelling, Dylan didn’t possess the energy to raise his head off Danny’s shoulder. That sounded like the most exhausting thing ever. He was dipping in and out of wellness here.

“The boss did this to him. We _never_ wanted to.” Lucas joined in, equally hellbent to change Danny’s opinion on them. To accuse a fan of wounding their idol was the most mortal blow that could be dealt. 

“To begin with, if we’d have known this gig was going up against Hollywood Undead, we’da bailed right then and there.” Camilo persisted and Danny believed him, fully, but he couldn’t manipulate these poor saps if they knew he understood. 

“Hope you’re gonna break it to your fellow fans that the new album’s not coming out because Funny Man succumbed to his injuries.” As he spoke, Danny carefully tightened his bound arms around Dylan, adding emphasis to his poor state. “He’s probably got internal bleeding after getting ran over. He’s gonna die before your boss decides to let him go and - _let’s be honest_ \- he’s gonna get rid of both of us when we’re useless.” 

Camilo and Lucas exchanged a glance, aware of that and with the fate of the new album hanging overhead, the pressure drilled twice as deep. Yes, there was a chance that Cesar was going to keep his word, the chance they’d all been counting on but Danny wasn’t going to risk it. Sure, he amped up how serious he thought Dylan’s injuries were but the guy still wasn’t the picture of health. 

“I.. I can get you VIP backstage passes to all our future gigs if you uncuff us.” Dylan murmured when he caught on to what Danny was attempting to do. Painstakingly, he raised his head enough to regard the Colombians through weary, bleak eyes, shiny from the extreme discomfort blazing away in his body. 

In their mother tongue, Camilo and Lucas held a quick, whispery conversation but Dylan was fluent in Spanish and Danny understood enough to learn that their minds were made up. Fortunately, their loyalty to the Undead outweighed any they had for Cesar. 

“Not a chance we’ll let Cesar be the reason this new album doesn’t come out.” Camilo was already getting the keys for the handcuffs out his pocket; he came over quickly and began releasing Danny first, never once asking questions concerning whether or not they should let ‘the backstabber’ go. These dudes were not the brightest… 

“Thanks.” Danny grumbled when he was allowed to stand again, rubbing his worn wrists, the handcuffs at his feet. In moments, Dylan was free too but on account of his injuries, he didn’t have the same strength Danny did. He didn’t bound right back upright. 

“C’mon, Dyl. We need to go.” Danny said, reaching to pull Dylan off the ground by his good arm, careful though the jolts of pain couldn’t be helped. The Hispanic winced and whimpered when his broken bones shifted slightly, swaying from either headrush or something else and more severe. 

Camilo didn’t have to be told to be a helping hand; he stepped in to prop Dylan against himself while Danny retrieved a few small, thin planks from that broken bedframe in the corner. With the wood and a strip of cloth he tore off his hoodie, he created a makeshift splint he attached to Dylan’s wrist to ensure the break didn’t get worse. 

Once that was done, he positioned himself under Dylan’s other arm and began to lead the way to the door. Now to make haste and get the fuck outta here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be noted that I touched this up while wearing Charlie Scene cosplay and drinking warm Pepsi by candlelight. I don't know why but it's need-to-know.


	13. hollywood, we never going down

Now, don't get him wrong; Matt _liked_ Jeff. He did, _really._ He was cute as pie and the little dude was ex-Undead, they were friends back-when, and Jeff went above and beyond what was expected of him. But… Matt felt _really_ uncomfortable being alone with him. Sure, Charlie was here as well but that didn't help. Since the band parted ways with him, Jeff seemed to have gone a little more loco than they remembered, or had he always worn a strip of tinfoil around his wrist to cover his watch while searching the scrapyard for hidden vehicular treasures? 

Filling his cheeks with hot air, Matt stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets, moving his legs back and forth in place to generate some semblance of warmth. Winter in California was a bitching shock to every Angelino when it came. His body somehow never got used to it.

Idly, the drummer surveyed his surroundings and the piles of scrap cars laying around, waiting to be crushed into little metal cubes. But Matt didn’t focusing on those, he had… other things on his mind. Red bandana over his lower face, automatic weapon hanging off his shoulder by the strap, Jeff was peering into the engine of an ‘88 Ford, as if there was anything valuable there for him to pinch. The emo kept murmuring things to himself, like he was taking notes or something but his voice was too low to make out the words.

Maybe Matt didn't want to know what he was saying.

Jeff was supposed to be standing guard at one side of the small clearing Matt was in the centre of, but he got bored. And Matt was too afraid of him to ask him to go back where he was supposed to be. But _Charlie,_ at least, was more determined to stay on target; he'd taken ground behind the cover of a wrecked Kia Panda, a suitable place to both take aim and not get riddled with holes in the process. He was armed with a camo-painted Tec 9 rifle there was _no_ way Jeff owned legally, the filed off serial number was a clue. 

Back at his shop, Jeff gave them the vaguest possible explanation for his hidden arsenal. 

_“People come in here with bullet holes in their engines and blood across the back seats, and Shady don’ ask. Sometimes, they pay with guns or drugs and I take it, no questions. Too many questions get you killed.”_

And the implication that he'd make them vanish if they got too nosy wasn't missed. Who knew what bad shit Jeff was mixed up in? Matt wasn't convinced he _wasn't_ running with some mafia. 

Over the drummer's shoulder, the straps of a duffel bag left an impression, weighed down by the five kilos of powdered sugar that looked a helluva lot like cocaine. It was Jeff's sugar, as apparently, it was necessary for him to own three sacks of the shit despite not even taking a lump with his coffee. They… they all knew he was making DIY bombs with it, didn't they?

And people wondered why Matt was scared of their ex-bandie. 

For the nth time, Matt shifted his position, leaning from one leg to the other. Gosh, it felt like he'd been standing out here for hours but truthfully, it hadn't even been half of that. Where was Cesar? What was taking him and his gang so long? There was this grim worry in the back of Matt's mind; what if the Colombian decided to torture Danny for what he wanted to know? Their blondie was supposed to give it up willingly but what if Cesar didn't believe him? 

Matt _really_ didn't want more blood on their hands.

_“Oi,_ curly fry,” Charlie called from his hiding spot, gun rested on the roof of the car to balance his aim. “I hear someone up ahead.”

Matt did too. The hum of an approaching vehicle filled his ear, coming down the only path into the junkyard. By now, he recognised the red Volvo's engine. A golden blaze of headlights swamped Matt, making his pupils shrink as he pulled his mask off his head and over his face. _Go time._

Tightening his bandana, Jeff cocked his gun when he jogged back to where he was originally supposed to be, finally remembering what they were here for. Hint; it _wasn’t_ to dumpster dive. 

As the Volvo and an accompanying Ford rolled up, Matt’s hand ghosted over the gun inside his coat, itching to have it in his palm but Johnny distinctly instructed them to avoid a firefight if they could. Cesar wanted to fight, so they’d bring the war, but they weren’t allowed to shoot? For sake of the plan, Matt hoped it was avoidable but with these guys, who could say?

They parked less than a meter from Matt but he didn’t step away or move even a centimetre, unwilling to make them think he was afraid. No, these fuckheads hurt Dylan, the last thing he was, was _afraid._

“Why, _hello.”_ Matt’s voice lacked all forms of enthusiasm and kind courtesy when he greeted the men who stepped out, and he was hoping his tone betrayed his wish for them to die screaming.

Ignoring what he said, Cesar strolled over like the cock of the walk, his second-in-command at his side, armed to the nines but that was okay, so were the Undead. The leader of the Colombian drug trafficking ring stopped when he was almost upon the drummer, who stood a head shorter but refused to let that intimidate him. 

As Matt raised his face, locking his eyes on Cesar through the slits in his mask, Cesar swept him up and down with a slow, judgemental gaze, almost disappointed.

“Where’s your boss? The blanco I spoke to on the phone.”  
  


“Johnny couldn’t make it.” Interesting how everyone naturally assumed the big guy was their fearless leader… but then, maybe he was. This whole plan was mostly Johnny’s and Danny’s doing, anyway, the rest of them were cogs. 

Cesar shrugged. Matt wasn’t who he expected but business could still be conducted the way it was agreed. He motioned to the duffel bag the drummer held close to himself, his fingers tightening protectively around it when it suddenly became the spotlight of the other’s attention.

“My product, I assume?” 

“Depends.” Matt cocked his head, the weight of his mane falling over his right shoulder. “I see you didn’t bring my friend to trade… like you _promised_ you would.” To be frank, no one was expecting him to hold up his end of their bargain, which is why the Undead didn’t either. People were so predictable.

“We couldn’t be sure this wasn’t another one of your tricks. You and your annoying little amigos have proven you won’t go down without a fight.” 

Matt swept his arm out to the side, gesturing to nothing in particular though Charlie and Jeff were caught in the motion.

“We don’t _‘go down.’_ Or have you not realised?” 

Cesar gave a half-amused, half-irritated scoff, yet maintaining that cold smile that raised an icy glitter to his dark eyes. He wanted to kill the three of them but he could hold back until it was a suitable time.

“That’s cute but we’re here for business.” He extended his hand out to Matt, gesturing to his palm with his fingers. But Matt refused, moving the bag behind himself.

_“No._ Not until we have Dylan. That’s what we agreed.” 

Charlie, vigilant behind his rifle, yearned to use it and take out these fuckers with a headshot per each one. The hood of the red Volvo was crusted with dark streaks of old blood, it was quite the temptress when it came to firing. These bastards hadn’t even cleaned the evidence of their crime...

As Matt and Cesar debated over terms already set, the masked maniac trained his weapon from one Colombian to the other; the person standing beside Cesar with authority second to only his boss’s. Didn’t Aron say that Conrad claimed Cesar and his right-hand ploughed Dylan down? Charlie wondered if he was looking at the man in question… God, his hatred for these people was _indescribable_. They nearly killed Dylan and forced the Undead into a position where they had to hurt Danny for a chance at saving his life.

Thoughtfully, Charlie’s aim drifted from the man’s head to his neck then lower down to rest above his heart, imagining how rewarding taking the shot would be. Johnny instructed them not to shoot, but if the big guy was here right now, _he'd do it._ He'd take care of these fuckers. They _didn't_ need to be alive for this plan to work.

Mental images of Dylan getting hit like a dog on the road flashed through Charlie's mind; before he even realised it, he was shaking from rage. 

Before _anyone_ realised it, the ear-shattering pop of a bullet exploded through the air, the suddenness of the loud noise surprising everyone, and that included even Charlie. The projectile cut true as the crow flies, straight through the second-in-command, a puff of red exploding out the centre of his sternum. Everybody seemed to be frozen in shock for a few beats as the dead man slumped into the dirt where he belonged, but then all sets of eyes followed the trajectory of the bullet back to Charlie. 

Matt and Jeff looked stunned, both of them.

Slowly, Charlie uncurled his index from around the trigger, hardly remembering he ever pulled it, but he guessed he must've, because the man who helped hurt Dylan was now rightfully dead.

_“...Chico,”_ Cesar clicked his tongue in annoyance, the blood of his soldier spreading to his feet. “That was _not_ wise.”

The tide turned in an irreversible breakneck U, Matt sensed it the second it did and his hand lunged for his gun, but it was sent flying from his grasp when Cesar attacked him. 

A firefight broke out the same instant. Cesar brought six or more with him and they would be _generous_ with their ammo. 

The Colombian weighed easily two hundred pounds, Matt never had a chance of staying on his feet, he got thrown to the floor with the bag of powdered sugar beneath him and a drug boss on top. A back and forth of bullets hailed overhead while Cesar grabbed two handfuls of Matt's throat and squeezed. 

Choking, the drummer kicked and thrashed, struggling to get out from underneath the unreasonable amount of weight crushing him while the air stopped running to his lungs. Pressure built behind his eyes for every second that he couldn't breathe.

_Dammit, Jordon,_ they could have resolved this verbally! Now it was a tussle until the last man. 

Rapidly, Matt groped the ground around him for a weapon, fingers coming upon a large rock that he didn't hesitate to smash into Cesar. Like magic, Cesar toppled off and then it was Matt’s turn. He didn’t look it, but he was fucking _strong._ For goodness sake, he pounded drums for a living, he could throw a punch and take fifty but he wasn’t in the receiving mood today. 

Regaining himself quick, he straddled Cesar and slammed his fist into his face before his enemy could make the next move. Often, people - _namely Charli_ e - made fun of Matt for his fingerless black gloves. _Apparently,_ they made him a MySpace emo boy but these babies weren’t simply an accessory; beneath the knuckles, solid plastic was sewn into the fabric. It made it _rather unpleasant_ when he punched somebody.

Blood erupted from the corner of Cesar’s mouth, his teeth pink, face whipped left and right under the pummelling Matt dealt him. Whack after solid whack, the drummer was determined to turn his flesh and skull into an unrecognisable paste for shooting Charlie, getting Aron arrested, trying to kill Johnny and Jeff, kidnapping and nearly killing Dylan, and everything else he could spend all his life listing off.

But Matt’s brief moment of advantage wasn’t long-lived; Cesar caught his hand, his brick-of-a-fist shooting up into Matt’s jaw. Yelping, his teeth clamped shut on the tip of his tongue, blood filled the inside of his mask and he yet again found himself being wrestled to the ground. There were no middle-grounds to this. First, it was Cesar on top, then the turns changed and Matt had the upper-hand, no clear winning streak in sight for either.

Yes, Cesar was physically superior but Matthew Busek was _fucking angry._

“You’re going to pay for what you did to my friends!” He yelled, bullets rattling and bursts of fire from the weapons going off all around him but he had no fear of being shot.

“I’m going to _kill_ your friends! All of them, starting with that Spanish traitor!” Was Cesar’s rage-filled response, his teeth bared and eyes blown wide from adrenaline and the sheer amount of murder-lust seizing him. His calm, cool facade from before was consumed alive by the monster that lived beneath his skin; the monster that was capable of all he’d done.

“He’s _Undead_ before he’s Spanish!” Matt threw himself at Cesar, dodging blows and passing out his own like free candy. He’d gotten hit in the shoulder, his left arm was lacking on the strikes but he made up for it with the boot he acquainted the Colombian’s shin with. The man bucked, Matt went in for a brutal attack that was going to break something irreparably but Cesar was quicker this time. In the nick of time, he swung around, throwing himself to Matt’s six and ripping his head back by the hair. He wrapped a thick clump around his hand, jerking it violently until strands tore out at the roots.

Matt bit his already bitten tongue instead of succumbing to the cry of pain, his head forced so far back that his chin pointed towards the dark sky. He was trying to free himself, hitting and kicking despite the way it meant his hair was being literally torn out. _It hurt,_ it burned like hell, but this fucker was _not_ taking him down. 

Hollywood _never_ went down. 

“I think I’ll leave you alive to watch your friends die.” Cesar hissed into Matt’s ear, lips inches from the lobe of it. The self-assured certainty of his voice was enough to drive a man to murder but Matt was determined to go through with ending this. The final nails were already in the coffin lid. There was a pocket knife in his jeans, he managed to reach it, flip the blade and in one lightning-fast motion, slashed at Cesar behind him. 

Successfully, Matt sliced through the hair that was keeping him trapped, disconnecting himself from it and Cesar’s grip but while he did, he succeeded twice.

_“Argh!”_ Hands shooting over his face, Cesar doubled over and stumbled away, a hot rush of red spilling betwixt his fingers. Matt was going to slam the whole fucking knife into his skull, all of the blade until it ended at the handle, but his raised arm was lowered when a bullet collided with his chest. A shock of pain speared through his entire body, the jolt of the impact threw his arms out to the sides and sent him back as if an omnipotent force willed it. It was stray friendly fire he got caught in, Matt barely registered it came from the Panda Kia before he struck the ground. 

_“MATT-!”_ Charlie screamed, the horrified eyes behind his sunglasses fixed on Matt from the second the bullet hit to the one where he crashed like he was a sack of bricks dropped from the highest building. Charlie was aiming for the Colombian running to save his boss and lifting a dagger to Matt. He was aiming for _that_ guy! But instead he - he hit-

_“Jordon!”_ Jeff came running up from somewhere, jumping over a number of bodies and bits of scrapped vehicles. He was covered by blood-splatter in various stages of freshness but none of it his own, the metal of his gun hot and ammo clip at fifty percent. Charlie was probably somewhere near the same as far the number of bullets he had left was concerned, too bad he gave one away free to Matt. 

Ashen-faced, Charlie didn’t respond to Jeff calling his name, he was shaking violently. The gun fell from his unsteady hands as he stared ahead, seeing none of the firefight unfolding around them because he was only tuned into their fallen drummer. Deathly motionless, Matt was on his back in the centre of it all, his mask made it impossible for them to tell if he was dead or dying. But considering it was a chest shot, it was one or the other, Jeff could confidently wager.

Charlie was in shock and Matt was down for the count, Jeff realised this was now up to him. Right. _Fine._ These guys made a colossal fucking mess and he cleaned it up. He may have left the band but the dynamic never changed.

Kicking Charlie’s fallen weapon into his spare hand, Jeff had forty bullets between the two guns and only four targets left. He intended to not waste a single shot. 

Now, he hoped to God that Matt wasn’t dead but adrenaline pounded through his veins and all he could think to do was fight to get his ex-band out of this alive, he couldn’t lock-up the way Charlie did. That would mean all their deaths and not just Matt’s.

Jeff knew it was a risky thing to do _before_ he got onto the hood of the Kia covering Charlie, where he was nothing but an open target. Regardless, he bound up the windscreen, onto the roof and opened merciless fire upon the Colombians. The rattle of automatic weaponry filled the air, by now the heat was well over the boiling point for the Undead and their enemies alike. And said enemies realised they weren’t going to win this, they grabbed their blinded boss and the bag they believed to contain their cocaine and started running back towards their vehicles. 

Oh, so they were fleeing now? Jeff wished people would learn not to do that because they were leaving their backs open to attack. Now, if they didn’t want to die, why’d they go an’ annoy Shady? 

“Run, _you fucking dogs!”_ Jeff’s indexes were pulled back without relenting, he shot at the car they were trying to escape in, aiming for a very specific spot on the side that any mechanic would know. Bullets bounced off the metal and exploded into sparks, Jeff kept at it even as the Volvo screeched into motion, flooring it away but they didn’t get far before a cap popped through into the fuel tank. 

At once, a rewarding billow of fire went up, the explosion lifted the car and threw it, flipping onto its roof with a terrifying crash of metal bending and glass shattering. Agonised screams of men burning alive twisted and twined into the carnage of hellish noises, eating up any other sound that may have been out on such a night. The sugar in the bag they took, it was like napalm on open skin once alight. 

The heat burned Jeff’s skin, stinging the fine hair on his arms as he jumped off his perch and ran closer to make certain he got them all, but then he paused when he got near Matt. 

Splayed out on the blood-soaked earth, Matt laid still as a pinned butterfly and no sooner had Jeff stopped, that Charlie raced there as fast as he could. He’d snapped out of the dissociation and the first thing he did on auto-pilot was to fall onto his knees beside his friend - _who he just shot!_

_“Matt!_ Matt - oh my God, I - I'm so _sorry- I-”_ Charlie stammered inconsolably, rivers of tears streaming down his cheeks. Uncontrollably, he trembled but managed to drag Matt halfway onto his lap, tearing his sock-and-buskin mask from over his face and throwing it aside without care. His eyes were shut beneath it, a dribble of blood running out the corner of his lips.

“I - I'll never call you a faggot ass bitch again! I'll never say you're gay or put gum in your hair if - if you just wake up! M - _Matt!_ Matty, please-” Rigorously, Charlie slapped Matt's cheek when shaking him wasn’t restoring life to his limp body. The sobbing worsened every second that he remained unmoving.

Standing aside, Jeff didn't know what he should do but not leaving his friends alone was a start… he hated having to behave like a human but he was a little bit… _unhappy_ here. Probably because Charlie killed Matt. 

He approached solemnly, already sure he couldn’t pry Charlie off his companion, when he was taken aback by the tiny flicker of tension on Matt’s features, followed by the slight flutter of his eyelashes. 

“- Jordon, _stop.”_ Immediately, the emo caught Charlie by the wrist when he was going in for another slap. “He's _alive.”_ Jeff tipped his head towards their drummer, slowly coming to, which was rather shocking, considering they’d both been sure he was dead. 

Baffled, tears continued rolling over Charlie’s lashline as he stared at Matt’s blank blue eyes gradually open, dots left unconnected as they flitted to Charlie. Matt tried to say something but he was completely winded, not even half a breath remaining in his lungs. The effort to speak caused him to start violently coughing, and he covered his mouth with the back of his hand. Rapidly waving Charlie aside, he sat up, coughing into his cupped palms while his friends gaped at him, right for some answers. They just saw him get shot in the chest! 

It was only then that Charlie realised there was no blood on him, not even his fingers or any other part of him that’d touched Matt. Heck - there wasn’t a mortal amount of blood on Matt _either. What?!_ Grabbing the drummer by his collar, Charlie tore the front of his coat open, popping some buttons but he didn’t care, urgent, wide and teary eyes landing on the shattered cellphone in his breast pocket. 

The phone had been ruined by their dunk in the bay but Matt never bothered to take it out his hoodie, which ended up saving his life. 

The flattened bullet was lodged in the centre of it, directly above Matt’s heart. 

When Charlie saw it, his entire body sagged with relief but he couldn’t stop sobbing, hugging Matt fiercely to himself and burying his face in the crook of his shoulder. Wincing, Matt was going to have horrific bruising all over his chest from the brutal impact of the shot, his ribs might be fractured, yet he found the strength to loop an arm around Charlie. 

During, Matt glanced at the burning Volvo, going up in flames just ten meters from them. He couldn’t’ve been out for long but apparently, a lot happened while he was. The Colombians were dead. Most of them, anyway. And he’d almost been dead too, one lucky break from it.

Chewing on his lip ring, Jeff stayed at a distance, rubbing a wear mark into the dirt with his sneaker. He was… _relieved._ That was close. But he felt awkward about having been scared Matt was dead. Of course, _he wasn’t,_ Undead didn’t die. 

Over Charlie’s trembling shoulder, his tears soaking into Matt, the drummer met Jeff’s eyes and nodded a single, subtle ‘thank you’. Considering Charlie’s inconsolable state, it must’ve been Jeff who took out the Colombians. 

  
Johnny _did_ say to keep Cesar and his crew occupied for a while... hopefully, this near-total disaster sufficed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to formally apologise for scaring you there.


	14. anchors with black eyeliner

Johnny hoped to God that Matt was holding up okay with Charlie and the emo, knowing their dear drummer was afraid of Jeff and his weird-ass behaviour. But they wouldn't have to be alone for long, they only needed to distract the Colombians for a bit while the rest was taken care of by Johnny, Jorel and Aron. 

While they were at Conrad's place, Aron swiped the laptop off the kitchen table and exited with it under the hoodie Jorel hadn't wanted back yet. For the moronic jerkface he was, it was so predictable that the pig was also too lazy to log out of the LAPD’s database, all to their convenience. 

They'd seen the red Volvo enough times by now to remember the license plate, which they simply typed into the LAPD's search engine and _boom,_ a street camera picked up its location. They were geniuses, no need to tell them, they knew. 

Before departing to rendezvous with Matt at the scrap yard, the Volvo sat outside of an abandoned apartment block for a while, and to be honest, the whole place resembled a typical crack den. 

And with Cesar out, getting his attention drawn away from his HQ, it was unlikely there was going to be a big firefight and thus, reduced the risk of Danny and Dylan being caught in the middle. Cesar and his gang were very much still going to die, one by one, if that's what it took, but there was a time and a place. 

And Johnny was _really_ regretting going full-blown badass motherfucker on Cesar's front door, why did he think he could kick it down? Probably because, _on any other day,_ he could. Except he hadn't quit limping after Danny fucking kicked his knee in. Shit, he might look like a blond baby angel, but Johnny swore Danny was a donkey on the inside because he _still_ couldn't walk right. God knows if he ever would again. 

And as aforementioned, he attempted to kick the door off its hinges but the second his boot connected with its surface, a sabre of pain shot through his shin and he stumbled back with an embarrassing yelp. 

Sneakily, Jorel snickered as he went by, accomplishing what Johnny couldn't and sending the damn thing caving in with the ease of a master. Wood tore off the hinges and screws, Jorel strolled in with a raised gun while Johnny was bent over, rubbing his knee with both hands. 

Aron cast him a sympathetic look as he followed after his BFF, making a mental note to scold Jorel later for being a dick. 

When he recovered himself as quickly as he could, Johnny limped inside too, picking up the sawed-off that he dropped. He loved and appreciated Danny and knew he didn't maim him intentionally but actually _fuck_ him. 

But _God,_ Johnny would kill everyone and then himself if they didn't find Danny alive. Not that there was any reason he _shouldn't_ be alive. He-

"Knock, knock, _mothafuckas!"_ Pressing circumstances aside, Jorel was grinning like a crazy person when he powered his way through the next door in his path. The room he burst into reeked of weed and inside, three Colombians left on-guard sat around a coffee table. Smoking pot had been their only obligation for the day… until a man wearing a mask with blood streaks running from the eyes and a dollar over the mouth let himself in. 

Alarmed, the Colombians bolted to their guns, yet Jorel was quicker; he pounded two shots, hit two targets but his third ran at him, shoving him at the doorframe as he raced out into the hall. But to his detriment, he went directly into Johnny's path and got punched through a wall. Literally, Johnny punched him into the drywall that caved beneath his weight, dust and paint chips exploding in all directions.

He didn't get out of the crater. 

Speed-walking by Johnny at a determined pace, Aron raised his arm to shoot the fourth Colombian who thought coming at them from down the hall was a good idea. One shot, a clip to the head and the guy fell mid-stride, dropping his raised machete onto the very ground he became part of.

“Jorel, _honey,_ quit playing around on the floor and c'mon. We gotta find Dylan and Danny.” Unimpressed, Aron stepped over the corpse and mom-toned his friend while he reloaded his weapon. With a grunt, Jorel got back onto his feet, using the doorframe for support. 

“‘Cause _that's_ what I'm doing, _Aron.”_ Jorel snapped in response, pushing off the wall and hurrying after his bestie, rather annoyed. He was off to such a _great_ start, to only then get knocked down like a preschooler on the playground. 

“It's what it _looked_ like you're doing.”

_“Oh yeah?_ How about _you_ try it then?”

“Try be as fucking dumb as you? _Sorry,_ that requires a level of skill that I'm incapable of - _Jorel!”_ Offended, Aron shrieked and hit Jorel when he grabbed him around the waist to pick him up, clean off the ground. Commence the kicking and shouting and fighting like fucking three-year-olds. 

_“Jorel,_ put me down!”

“Not until you fucking _apologise!”_ Was the bitchfaced demand, followed by Jorel tightening his grasp and leaning further back to ensure Aron couldn't touch the floor. They tussled and bumped into several walls, bickering all the way. 

“I swear to _God,_ I will bang you two's heads together.” Johnny warned them, marching past and hitting Jorel with his shoulder to let him know that he meant it. These idiots could _not_ be having one of their couples' fights here. Not while Danny and Dylan still needed to be rescued.

And the threat went through, Jorel begrudgingly set his friend down, thanked for his compliance with an elbow to his stomach. 

“Johnny, don't bother; there's nothing _in_ Jorel's head.” Shooting Jorel a leer over his shoulder, Aron muttered, catching up with Johnny as he lead the way deeper into the building, searching every room as they came.

_“Hey,_ I _gave_ you my fucking hoodie.” Jorel jabbed Aron pointedly in the ribs with his index. In response, Aron violently slapped his hand away, his teeth bared and pointed canines showing. 

“Don't _touch_ me.” Was Jorel's BFF's retort, offended and outraged as if a damning sin had just been committed before his very eyes.

“I'll touch you if I want-”

“Then I guess I _want_ to shoot you in the knee, _huh?”_

_“Danny!”_ Ignoring the idiots, Johnny raised his hand to the side of his mouth, yelling for their precious blond in the small hope that he could hear. 

“Danny!”

* * *

_“-Danny!”_

Upon hearing his name from somewhere down the mazes of hallways, Danny's ears pricked. That sounded a lot like Johnny. 

_“This_ way.” Certain, the blond instructed, taking a sharp right towards the direction the voice came from. He was still on one side of Dylan, supporting him, his lean-to because by himself, he wouldn't be able to walk. Even now, with Danny and Camilo helping him, he could hardly do it. He stumbled and seemed to be whimpering at every step, dragging his feet arduously. 

They had to get him outta here like _yesterday fast._

_“Johnny!”_ Danny shouted, hoping the others could meet them in the middle and make this easier for Dylan. Every now and then, he could feel the Hispanic’s ribs shift against his side and he hated the way it twisted his stomach. Danny could chop up a corpse like no biggie, but _this?_ That's because Ross was dead and Danny knew he was in no pain. But the worst part was the way Dylan reacted minimally to what should be agonising, it was a warning sign that he was slipping into shock and his blood pressure was dropping like a lead balloon. 

Danny’d done a course in first aid, he was read-up on all the signs: clammy skin, shallow breathing, a needless amount of swallowing, and a lot of other things ticked off ages ago.

_“Johnny,_ we're over here!” Danny raised his pitch but then directly after, Dylan stumbled so drastically that he almost fell. 

“Whoa, dude!” Camilo hastened to steady him and Lucas rushed closer, anxiously scanning them over, hands floating out but he couldn't actually do anything in the way of helping. 

“Just a little further, Dilly,” Danny assured, comforting but being urgent was difficult to hide. His palm was flat on Dylan's back, the other on his abdomen and he could feel the contracting of Dylan's muscles through his clothes. It was a symptom of his body trying to process the pain it was in. 

“Just a little furth-” With so much of Dylan's weight on him, Danny had to arch his back a little to take it and in doing so, his gaze downcast to the floor. And on said floor, when briefly glancing at it, he noticed something. 

There was… a drying stream of blood running lengthways across the hall. Accidentally, he stepped into it, and when he withdrew his foot, his sneaker left a red print on the boards. Danny paused, silently following its path to where it travelled from beneath the parted door on the left. 

There was something about it that called to him, he slowly removed his steady off Dylan and went closer to investigate, reaching for the door handle.

“Uhm… I wouldn't go in there, dude.” Camilo cautioned him, shifting all of Dylan's weight against himself now that one crutch was gone.

Totally ignoring the words of warning, Danny pushed the door back on its hinges. It was black inside, the darkness tumbled out and with it, an overwhelming stench of death, thick as if there was a wall he walked smack-bang into. The blood ran further into the gloom, like a scarlet ribbon guiding him along. 

Tentatively, he took a couple of careful steps in, a box of light from the hallway barely illuminating the room. As far as he could tell, this place was little if any different to the one they kept himself and Dylan in, just as empty and decaying. 

_“Danny._ We gotta go.” Lucas pushed, and it wasn’t news that he needed, Danny was aware, he just… he just had to figure this out because the blood had to come from somewhere, didn’t it? He couldn’t explain this, he was drawn deeper into the room by something beyond himself, and it walked him every step to the source of the bleeding. 

_A body._ On the floor. What should he have expected? Not uncommon in a drug den. But this wasn’t just another dead drug dealer whose fuck-ups Cesar would no longer watch…. No, this was someone else entirely. Light brunet, blue eyes, kinda long hair… except his eyes were glassy as they stared up above and blood matted his hair, not so wavy and finely kept no more. He hadn't been dead for long. Hours maybe.

Cesar must’ve captured him straight after the warehouse fire. 

Seeing what they’d done to his friend, Danny’s shaking hand lifted over his mouth to stifle his gasp. He didn’t actually _want_ to see what Cesar did, but Lyle was drenched in blood and splinters of pink bone poked out the battered tears in his flesh. Gashes and deep cuts like ravines were tactically sliced into his skin, following the lines of his muscles. 

In just a brief glance before he could hide his eyes, Danny saw plenty.

The guitarist’s hands were shattered, then his arms and legs, all methodical torture to get him to spill information he may never have had. Since Cesar tasked the Undead to find the drugs, it was fair to say that Lyle didn’t hold onto them and the Colombian suspected he passed them to the people he was briefly with. How long until Cesar realised Lyle couldn’t give him what he wanted? Long enough to first break all his bones then move onto cutting him like he was a line of the coveted coke.

Danny’s vision was blurring, it was only when tears rolled over his lashline that he realised he was crying. Unbidden, streams began cascading down his cheeks before he even knew why. Lyle _betrayed_ them! He deserved this! He - he- 

A sob choked past Danny's teeth, he crumbled onto his knees, into the blood that’d stilled hours ago. His entire body shook, he hid his face behind his hands and didn’t care that there were three people outside, right where they could see him break down. 

Danny’d made himself hard as steel to the notion that Lyle ran off and left him at the mercy of drug traffickers, but the pieces fell together fast and he realised that wasn’t the case for the simple reason that Lyle was _dead._

Lyle could’ve had every intention to smooth this over himself and not drag Danny and the Undead through the mud, he was forthcoming to work together in the first place when the whole mix-up with Ross happened. But he _couldn’t_ because Cesar fucking tortured him to death.

Understanding what could’ve happened was too much.

It didn’t make any logical sense, there was no thought behind it, but Danny dragged his friend’s cold, stiff and lifeless corpse off the floor, into his arms, his tears mixing with the blood and forming a disgusting mixture. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care. 

He didn’t even care that he heard a trio of footsteps thunder into the hall outside. It was irrelevant background noise, meaningless like static.

“Oh my god, Dylan!” Jorel was horrified when his eyes set upon his friend's battered state, and he was going to punch the head off that Colombian who had his grubby mitts on Dylan, but Dylan raised a hand to stop him.

“D - don’t, Jo. He’s - he’s _helping.”_ Their Hispanic mumbled, leaning deeply into his Spanish brethren like he couldn’t walk without the support, but maybe he _couldn't_ as his eyelids were constantly falling shut for prolonged periods. His entire body swayed, his shoulders slumped and more of him bruises than skin.

But these two fucking scumcags didn’t appear to haveany intention of harming Dylan. They, indeed, appeared to be helping him. 

_“Give him to me.”_ Lowering his fist, Jorel snapped at the Colombians, lunging forth like a hissing cobra to take Dylan from them. Willingly, they let him, backing away with the widest, most adoring eyes to ever be set upon Jorel.

“It - it’s _J-Dog.”_ Lucas whispered disbelievingly, mouth hidden behind his knit fingers, awestruck but then when the rest of Jorel’s company caught up, his jaw dropped. 

Enter a slender man wearing a grey, pink, and blue mask, clad in a hoodie several sizes too large for him, almost like a tunic as it reached mid-thigh. On his six was a person who was quite the opposite structurally. He was big, tall, walking with a limp but formidable nonetheless. 

“Deuce… and _Johnny Three Tears? - Oh my god,_ he’s _so_ much hotter than I even dared to imagine.” Camilo searched behind him and took support from the wall, he might faint without it. He ran his hand through his hair, trying to process the swell of emotions. 

“Dylan, what the hell’d they do to you?” Aron couldn’t believe the number of bruises and cuts on Dylan when they found him, but he was alive, which was more than anyone dared to hope for. He beelined to help Jorel steady their band baby on his feet, about to ask after Daniel, when Johnny marched past him, taking a sharp left into the room with the door open. Somehow, they’d not heard the crying until now.

“Danny-” Johnny stopped mid-step when he saw what Danny was doing, what he was holding, and immediately, he realised the gravity here. That was the body of the fucking guitarist who started all this but - more importantly - he also meant a world to Danny at one point. 

“... Aro, get Dylan to a hospital. I’ve got this.” Johnny instructed his friends, very aware that he needed to tread carefully here but Dylan couldn’t afford to wait as long as it may take. And Aron got it too. He nodded once, then he was off, hurrying down the hall as quickly as he could. Those two dumbass Colombians went after, whispering among themselves about something and Johnny heard his name once or twice. But he didn't pay attention, he carefully approached Danny, simultaneously peeling his mask off and clipping it to his belt. 

_“Danno,”_ he quietly said, stopping a couple of feet from Danny, but his voice wasn't responded to. Danny drew deeper into himself, the shaking line of his shoulders pulling together. Like he was a morbid plushie to cuddle with, Danny hugged Lyle tighter, smearing them both in a greater mess of blood and gore. 

“Danno, I'm sorry, but you gotta let go of that thing.” He reached out to touch the blond, only to have his hand violently slapped away when Danny spun around. 

“He's not a fucking _thing!”_ He yelled tearily, his voice brittle and cracking through the words. Johnny was taken aback by his appearance, so drastically altered in such a short time. His face was flushed and bloodshot, bruised from before, red blotches speckling his skin. The shuddering made his lips tremble but his eyes were dark, darker than just their natural colour alone made them. 

“You're right. I'm sorry.” The butterfly-masked man said, raising his hands submissively. “But you gotta let go of him because we gotta go.”

“No, we _don't.”_ Aggressive, Danny sniffed and stared angrily ahead, resting his chin on Lyle's matted hair. Tears continued to run freely down his cheeks, like cascades of rainwater. 

“We _do_ ‘cause the second Aron and Jorel get Dyl to the nearest hospital, cops are gonna show up. We all need to be present or they'll launch another manhunt.”

“And then _what?”_ Danny venomously spat. “We get to spend the rest of our lives in prison?”

“No. As soon as they find out an officer of theirs was involved, they'll wanna make this whole thing go away. We'll do little if any time because we'll get those dumbass fanboys to confirm Conrad's involvement, it's gonna be okay.” As he said that, he attempted again to lay a hand on Danny and was successful this time, but the tenseness of the blond's muscles stiffened to stone.

“It'll be okay, Danno.” He assured again , and he really believed that it could be now that Dylan was safe and there was a way out of the false convictions. But Danny wasn’t so convinced. He stared off into the distance with disturbing intensity, thinking, the darkness on his features unimaginable for sweet little Daniel Rose. 

And then as Johnny was about to say something, Danny dropped Lyle and shot up onto his feet, storming out the door. The front of his shirt was drenched in red, little lines of it running down his face.

_“Where_ are you going?” Wherever it was, Johnny went after him, unwilling to leave Danny alone. If Cesar really had Lyle in his possession this entire time, then he must have captured him at the warehouse. But then where were the drugs? Could they have been destroyed in the fire? 

Whatever, it wasn't important. It really wasn't right now.

_“Danny.”_ Taking a sterner approach, Johnny caught the other's wrist when he wouldn't answer, but Danny pulled quickly out of his hand, as if the limb burned him.

“I'm gonna fucking _kill_ that cop.” He swore, the way he said it scared Johnny. He didn't doubt that Danny could do what he claimed. That he _would._ He'd proven time and time again that his capabilities knew no bounds. 

_“Conrad?_ Why?” Johnny frowned. 

“Because this _isn't_ right!” Whether he meant to or not, Danny stomped his foot, his fists shaking in tight balls at his sides. “Lyle fucked up, _yeah,_ _definitely,_ big time, but he didn't mean to drag us all down and he _didn't_ deserve _that!_ Cesar's got a cop in his corner, they're gonna get away scot-free like nothing ever happened!”

Those concerns were reasonable, though Johnny was sure they could do something about that scenario, though before he could even voice that, Danny took off again. He half-walked and half-ran, unwanting for Johnny to catch up and his limp certainly made it harder. Honestly, that guy had no right to tell him no, he'd been all about killing the enemy, ‘an eye for an eye’ and ‘violence is the answer’ all this time.

Danny remembered where Conrad lived, he'd retrace his steps and put a knife in the motherfucker's skull. Lyle only did what he did for the _good_ of Lorene Drive, he didn't mean for anyone else to get involved and he didn't fucking abandon them to deal with it. The only reason it seemed that way was because of that fucking Colombian. There _had_ to be consequences for this. 

_“Danny!_ Danny, get back here!” Johnny yelled from behind, several strides lagging but intent to catch him before he did something that would get him into trouble. But Danny was faster and didn't have an injured leg holding him back, he could make a clean getaway. Which is what he was thinking when he broke into a full-blown run. 

_“Dan_ \- what the hell do you think is gonna happen to you if you kill a cop? You'll _never_ get outta prison!” Johnny didn't think Daniel was in any mental state to see reason but goddammit, he had to try since he couldn't keep up. 

“I _don't_ care!” Came the aggressive response and then Danny slammed his hands into the front door, throwing it open to run out into the street. But he didn't get far until he raced directly into a set of arms that quickly closed around by reflex.

_“Ow!_ Ow - fuck - _dammit_ \- shit-!” Biting his tongue, Matt cursed, releasing the blond as he began a violent fit of coughing, near bending over double. Danny crashing into his bruised ribs like that knocked air from his lungs, all of a sudden it was a few moments before he could breathe.

Charlie and Jeff were taken aback when Danny burst out of the building like it was on fire and Johnny ran after him, an urgent expression upon his face, then all the pieces fell together. 

“Grab him!” Johnny yelled but didn't need to, Jeff and Charlie were already on it. Well, _Jeff_ more than Charlie, who was apprehensive on account of his injured shoulder but their emo made up for it. He caught Danny's arm in both of his hands and dug his heels into the earth, becoming an anchor with the _best_ smoked eyeliner an anchor ever had. 

“Jeff, I will fucking hurt you!” Engulfed by the fire of anger, Danny threatened, dragging an unyielding Jeffrey across the ground, the soles of his sneakers sliding. The blond was stronger than Jeff, who was mostly just comprised of attitude, though this was no zero sum game.

_“Yeah?_ I will fucking hurt you straight back!” Jeff kicked in Danny's direction but his leg didn't reach to make contact. He was about to go for another try but before either could hurt the other, Johnny stepped in. He grabbed Jeff around the ribcage and in a single easy motion, picked him up. He didn't weigh as little as Aron - _no one did_ \- but he wasn't exactly difficult to tuck under the arm so that Johnny had one free to catch Danny with. 

“You're _not_ killing no cop.” He sternly said to Danny, distractedly squeezing Jeff when the annoying midget squirmed. With his spare hand, Johnny took a palmful of Danny's hoodie and didn't let go, even when the kicking and bucking started happening.

“Yes, I _am!_ It has to be done because otherwise, Cesar gets away! He gets away with _everything.”_ A fresh flood of tears spilt down Danny's cheeks, over the trails left behind that hadn't dried yet. He was so upset, he was shaking from it and although Charlie couldn't imagine what was powerful enough to cause this, he may be able to relieve it.

“Uh… _Danno?_ Cesar isn't getting away with shit, it's kinda hard on account of the fact that… well, Jeff blew him up.”

Johnny's jaw dropped. 

“Jeff wh-?!”

“Jeff blew him up.” Matt confirmed when he could stop coughing, nodding with a weary look in his eyes. He'd seen war and death and his tired expression showed it.

“Or _them._ All of the Colombians as well as their car. Everyone is dead.” 

The news hung over everyone’s heads for a spell, sinking in slowly as it was quite a lot to digest but once they managed, the tension snapped like a taut line.

In relief, Danny's body let up the shaking anger and violently tensed muscles. He pulled out of Johnny's grasp and covered his face with his hands, taking some steps away to regain himself and collect some semblance of his thoughts. Before he ever learned Lyle's fate, justice had been served. 

They weren't getting away. 

But it undid nothing.

“Matt, I _told_ you to avoid lethal force.” Johnny turned to their drummer, dropping their emo lad as he did. He wasn't angry that everything didn't go to plan, he was just concerned about the levels of damage control a fiery explosion with multiple casualties would entail.

“You _know_ I can't control Jeff.” Matt waved a swift hand in emphasis to Jeff, who was straightening his crumpled clothes after being so _rudely_ picked up.

“Plus Charlie _shot_ me!”

“Charlie _what-?!”_

As if shouting was the only way to get the recap through, Matt and Johnny continued their back and forth, while they did, Charlie broke away from their company. He joined Danny at the small distance he was standing at, a couple of meters away, and though he still didn't know what had happened, he hugged their precious blond. He sensed Danny needed a hug. 

“Undead's got you, bro.” He promised after Danny slumped against him, burying his face in his shoulder and clinging to him as if he would die if he didn't. His fists tightened around two handfuls of Charlie’s hoodie, gripping it tightly.

“It’s gonna be okay.” The maniac went on to reassure, stroking soft, soothing lines into Danny’s back. He was trembling again. But Charlie was determined that it would all be alright for them each, even if it didn’t seem possible in Danny’s eyes at the moment. He was blind at the moment.

While everyone was distracted, Jeff snuck off to lurk back to his shop. If the law would be getting involved now then he was fuckin’ dipping. He did not need that kind of attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm unsure about how this turned out but I hope you like it.


	15. chicken nuggets and friendship

Aron was eating Skittles. His fourth bag, actually, the packet torn open the second it tumbled out the vending machine. From the corner of his eye, Jorel watched him wolf down the sugar-coated crap, pouring half into his palm and throwing his head back to swallow it all. Normally, Aron's diet consisted of shit that made his waistline nothing short of a sheer miracle, and he often over-ate, but rarely this mindlessly. 

He was stressed. He was worried about Dylan. Worried about their friends in general. Knowing that, Jorel didn't say anything about all those empty calories he was pumping into his system. Usually, he'd nudge a healthy nut bar or something similar into Aron's direction when he stress ate, but there wasn't one available and this was not really the time.

The cops hadn't shown up yet but they would soon and the doctors Aron and Jorel entrusted Dylan in the care of hadn't come back with results yet. That was an hour ago though _surely,_ their band baby was okay. He _always_ was, but that wrist would take a while to reset, not to mention any subterranean injuries he might have acquired. Few people got ran over then beaten and escaped with just a single broken bone. 

So while his best friend in the world scarfed down his feelings, Jorel sat on the edge of a chair in the waiting room, bouncing his foot impatiently. There weren't a lot of people here, thankfully, but Jorel couldn't help the feeling that everyone was staring at them. It's not like they were _such_ a spectacle today, their masks were off and their clothes covered in only a _minimal_ amount of blood splatter. 

Maybe Aron's restless pacing was the culpable party. 

_“Aro.”_ Jorel caught his brother’s forearm when he traipsed by again and drew him into the seat beside his own.

“You look like a crazy person.” He whispered. Frustrated, Aron blew his cheeks out and stuffed more candy into them, chewing loudly. He was scowling at his own feet. 

Before Jorel could further focus on Aron, those dumbass fanboys came running back from the… uh, _errand_ he sent them on. They had a brown paper takeout bag from KFC as well as two large drinks, a Sprite and Dr Pepper, as per the precise instructions. Too anxious, Jorel couldn't eat, he kept his order as simple as a soda while Aron listed off half the menu to their little servant boys. 

_“Thanks._ Now go grab me some M&Ms.” Snatching the bag, Aron slammed his next set of demands into their faces before they even fully stopped running. But they were more than happy to oblige, _honoured,_ even.

“ _Of course,_ My Lord.” Camilo wasn't even being a sarcastic prick with the title he gave Aron; he meant it fully, departing with a small bow and his companion in tow, whispering amongst themselves about how _lucky_ they were to be given tasks from _The Producer_ himself. 

Seeing as how these hopeless morons helped Cesar, Jorel let Aron get away with abusing his power over his adoring fans. It's not like he would do it ordinarily, anyway. And they were just fetching food, not exchanging sexual favours. Harmless.

“They should be finished with Dylan soon.” Holding his Sprite, Jorel thought aloud as Aron tore into a paper bag of chicken nuggets, dipping them into a gross amount of hot chilli cheese sauce. Where the fuck was he putting all that food? Logically, his tiny body didn’t have the capacity.

“Fucking hope so.” Aron muttered in between chews, frowning at the food or at a thought in his head. “I wanna know that he's okay.”

Jorel did too. He gave a small nod, watching as the revolving doors opened and in came running the rest of their crew, Charlie, Danny, Matt and - limping drastically behind - _Johnny._ They’d had a rare stroke of intelligence to take their masks off before they came into the hospital, now just ordinary-looking men instead of intimidating members of the Undead. Jeff wasn’t with them but that was not surprising, he didn’t like public places, he didn’t like people and he refused to be anywhere where law enforcement might be within a mile's radius. 

He probably crept back home. 

Jorel got out of his seat to greet his friends, relievedly hugging Matt when he came close enough to be captured. 

“Thank God, you’re alright.” He exhaled the tense breath he’d been holding down Matt’s neck then moved onto hugging everyone else, making his way through them to ensure they were aware he was happy to be reunited. Seemingly bothered when embraced, Johnny merely patted Jorel on the head and couldn't wait for this experience to end.

When it was his turn, Charlie squeezed Jorel tightly around the abdomen, arms looped nearly twice about him and face buried in his chest. He was in no hurry to let go and Jorel was at peace with letting him stay as long as he might like to.

But now that they had a moment, 

“Hey, Jordy, I got something for you.” Jorel said, leaving one arm on Charlie as he reached into his jeans pocket, digging out the special little thing he found back at Cesar’s crack den, on the table the Colombians were snorting lines of coke from. _Drumroll,_ it was no other than the tape recorder they lost all the way from here, at the studio.

For a few moments, Charlie stared at it, blinking multiple times before he registered what he was looking at.

_“... MY SONG!”_ He threw his hands in the air out of excitement, his smile spreading further than the proportion of his face and his happiness spilling way past that too. He bounced up and down, impossible to keep track of as, like a hyperactive kid on E-numbers, he expressed his jubilance in spite of everything. He hopped onto the seats then threw himself at Jorel, wrapping all available limbs around him, the sudden impact toppling the man to the ground. He didn’t even have time to gasp before his face was being covered in a flurry of grateful kisses.

_“Oh thank you, J!_ Thank you, thank you, thank you-!” 

While his friend was being smothered by Charlie’s love and gratitude, Aron focused on Danny, watching as their blondie ghosted away from the crowd when he thought no one was paying any attention to him. He was upset, it was obvious, and Aron guessed it was something to do with the dead guitarist in the room he was sobbing in before they took Dylan away.

Johnny was at the reception desk with Matt, asking after Dylan, though the nurses didn’t know any more than they did the last twenty times Jorel badgered them. Jorel who was currently getting kissed to death.

So with everyone else distracted, it was only Aron who had eyes about him, noticed Danny leave, and immediately, he got out of his seat and took his chicken nuggets with him as he followed blondie out of the waiting area.

Danny went outside for some fresh air, staying under the shelter built by the door to avoid getting wet in the soft rainfall. He didn’t think it was a good idea to go far anyway, not since the police would be here to detain them soon. He hoped Johnny’s plan wasn’t the delusional thinking of a man who got his knee kicked in. It’d be great if no one but the truly deserving went to prison.

“Hey,” 

Snapping out of his haze of thoughts, Danny turned to the sound of the voice, met with Jorel’s other half, looking at him. Aron was eating a chicken nugget, holding a whole paper bag of them in his other hand as he munched on his snack. He was still wearing Jorel’s too-big hoodie, the sleeves rolled up so they wouldn’t fall over his fingers.

“Wanna nugget?” Popping the half-eaten one into his mouth, Aron dug another out of the bag and extended it to Danny.

“Wh… what? Why would I want a _chicken nugget?”_ The puzzled blond knit his brows, regarding Aron in question. Danny came out here to brood in his solitude and be angsty with his angsty thoughts and regrets, why was this person offering him fast-food like he couldn’t read a room? 

“‘Cause you look like a man who needs a chicken nugget? _Trust me,_ I know what those look like.” Aron waved the nugget in Danny’s face, a clear motion for him to take it and perhaps only to appease, Danny did, sighing as he caved and quickly ate the fucking thing. Undeniably, it was good, still slightly warm but he could’ve appreciated it cold; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten in the past three days. 

“Wanna ‘nother?” Aron offered Danny a second chicken nugget when he’d hardly finished his first one, but his hunger took over his angstiness and he accepted, murmuring a ‘thank you’ under his breath. 

There was a galvanized bike rack next to the pillar Danny was leaning on, Aron sat on the edge of it and put another nugget into his mouth, holding the bag at a close distance where it was obviously intended that Danny help himself if he pleased. 

In silence, Aron watched the cars passing in the street as he ate and in return, Danny watched _him,_ confused by what he was doing out here, to begin with. It was cold, rainy and from what he’d observed, Aron was fiercely territorial over his food, why would he want to share? 

But… Danny didn’t object to the company, no matter how quiet he may be. He didn’t really want to be alone despite seeking it. Perhaps Aron knew that and it’s why he came outside. 

However, the blond wondered if Jorel would take it in one bite that Aron was talking to someone else. He wasn’t certain how possessive the man really was or if it was even permitted that someone talk to Aron without his boyfrie - completely normal friend present. 

Danny had a couple more chicken nuggets without Aron having to insist and he could tell this was approved by the other. They ate but didn’t speak, it was refreshing compared to all the noise and screaming and fires for the past couple of days.

And soon, Matt came running out, the pace of his step worrying Danny that something was amiss but when he spun around… Matt was smiling.

_“There_ you two are! Get the hell back inside, the doctors said we can see Dylan.” Eagerly, the drummer gestured for them to follow him indoors and they didn’t need to be told twice, Aron sprung off the bike rack and went after with Danny close at his side. 

Matt lead them to an observation room in a ward on the fourth floor, where the rest of the guys were, crowded around an asleep Dylan. He’d been placed in a bed and his sleep appeared to be medically induced, so said the IV running into the inside of his elbow and held there with a piece of white tape. His grazes were gauzed and cuts stitched closed, his wrist in a cast that meant the bone could finally stop being jerked and jolted around.

Charlie’d taken the seat at Dylan’s bedside, softly stroking his hair while he slept, gazing at him with caring eyes. Likewise, Johnny hovered by like a helicopter mom at her kid’s first day of school, not wanting to take his attention off of Dylan for even one moment, not after what had happened when he last did. 

Jorel, having survived Charlie’s hug-and-kiss-attack, stood quietly near the doorway, arms folded until Aron fell into step beside him, and he put one of them around Aron’s shoulders without a word. Neither of them said anything to the other, just looked in Dylan’s direction. 

A doctor entered, reading through her clipboard as she walked and only retracting her gaze from it when she was halfway into the room. With her index, she pushed her glasses up her nose and addressed Johnny, _naturally_ assuming he was their authority.

“Your friend is lucky to be alive, Mr…?”

“Ragan.” Johnny told her. She nodded then continued.

_“Mr Ragan._ A couple more hours and it could’ve been too late, it’s a good thing you got him here when you did.” She left the grim information hanging over their heads while she glanced back to the report in her notes.

“There was some internal bleeding but not enough to need invasive treatment, he’ll be fine on that accord. No corrective surgery required, it could be helped with medication used to stimulate clotting. However, if left any longer, it could have progressed to the point where it caused organ damage... His wrist is badly broken, it’ll need to be in a cast for several months with routine check-ups at his GP’s office.” 

As she read off the list of problems, the Undead exchanged a glance. Who was gonna tell her that Dylan wasn’t advanced enough to have a GP? The nearest thing was his med-school drop-out weed dealer. The flunkie junkie, as Dylan affectionately referred to him as.

“... Three broken ribs but they’ll heal on their own in time if he avoids collision and rough activities.”

Charlie made a mental note he was going to stick to; don’t get Dylan with sneak attack pillow fights. Or any other kinda fights, for that matter. Not until he was recovered. 

The doctor lady listed off a couple of more things that weren't all that severe and amounted to the same instructions: plenty of rest and prescriptions that Dylan would be most happy with when he came to. 

When she left, they flocked around Dylan to wait for him to wake up, though they were told it could be hours. Their band baby was pumped so full of morphine that he'd be sleeping out this high for a while. Too bad, he would really appreciate being awake for it. 

But they didn't get too comfy on account of expecting company in the form of the boys in blue soon. Even with that looming overhead, Charlie didn't budge from his spot by Dylan, clutching the recorder and in a low, soft voice, telling his unconscious homie about how amazing the new song was. For all of this suffering, blood, sweat and tears, it had _better_ be. 

Aron's slaves - _fanboys_ came running back with his candy, all but bowing before him to present it. Turning his nose up like a snob, Aron daintily picked the M&Ms packet from Camilo's hands, not even bothering with a ‘thank you’ this time. 

Jorel was sitting in one of the few armchairs in the room, Aron was perched beside him on the arm of it, within range to be dealt a warning nudge by his friend. Rolling his eyes, scoffing, Aron muttered a word of gratitude while popping a fistful of M&Ms. He didn't see why he should extend his gratitude to the same people who helped chase them through the city like rats in a maze.

“Will that be all, your Excellency?” Lucas asked, hands clasped as a man in prayer and staring at Aron with starry eyes, a bright, happy smile, eager to serve him to his every desire. Jorel noticed his friend looked like he was going to give them _yet another_ set of instructions, and he drew the line. 

_“Thanks,_ he’s good.” Jorel cut it off, taking Aron’s hand when he raised it to start listing off more things he wanted. Jorel got fiercely scowled at but he ignored it, lowering Aron’s hand in his own onto his thigh and holding it there. 

“Camilo, Lucas, I gotta talk to you about something.” Finally leaving Dylan’s bedside, Johnny told their most adoring fanboys, leading the way into the hallway outside and to just have their names spoken by their idol, the Colombians were on cloud nine. Nearly tripping over themselves, they ran after J3T, dying for whatever it was that he was going to tell them.

And it had a lot to do with them informing the police of Conrad’s involvement, a surefire way to get the Undead exonerated from a shit tonne of charges. Really, everything they did was in self-defense because the fucking cops never lifted a finger to help them. And, if that didn’t work, there was always the impending threat that as a relatively successful band, they had the platform to cause real problems for the LAPD if they still decided to be dicks about all of this.

This. _Wasn’t._ Their fault. They were just protecting their stuff, their friends and themselves. All legal shit really.

And it’s a good thing that Johnny held that discussion with Camilo and Lucas then because not twenty minutes later, who else but Los Angeles’s finest came rolling up? 

“Hands behind your backs.” The detective leading a troop of uniformed officers ordered, stern-faced, already preemptively holding a pair of handcuffs. 

The Undead knew the jig was up and they should cooperate, running would get them nowhere so they submissively went along, allowing themselves to be cuffed and walked to the squad cars outside. An officer stayed at the hospital to ensure Dylan wouldn’t magically recover from his injuries and spring up from the bed, ready to reign more hellfire. 

To the great surprise of the bandmates, the detective was already in the loop about Conrad’s corrupt ass and informed them that there was a warrant out for the man’s arrest. Apparently, they’d known for a while that they had a mole among them but there hadn’t been enough evidence to press charges, until first hand accounts from the Undead and their fanboys as well as things recovered from the crack den came about.

It was enough to build a case, the detective informed them. He appeared to be willing to help them once they related what happened - excluding the number of bodies they’d racked up, of course. Gangs had wars all the time, that’s what it the deaths would look like. They stuck to the story that this Colombian drug cartel got it into their heads that they stole drugs from them and as a result, tried to kill them. Everything they did thereafter was in self-defence. Which was the summarised version of it, to be honest. 

From the look the detective gave them, he wasn’t buying it but he also didn’t care about some rock band misbehaving when there was a dirty cop in his department to weed out. He’d be hailed a hero for catching the traitor, so he had his reasons for being so adamant about pushing it. A promotion might be in order.

“We’ll be in touch.” The detective said when he finished interrogating them one-by-one, for several gruelling hours. He handed his card to Johnny, who was still baffled that they’d be allowed to walk outta here, despite all the time he’d spent persuading his friends of his plan. He didn’t expect it to be this easy. In exchange for their testimonies regarding Conrad, all charges would be dropped. That… that was unreal.

“Thank you.” He murmured, stuffing the card into his pocket. He and his bandmates were about to turn and head out, back to the hospital to see if Dylan was awake yet, but the detective wasn’t quite done.

“All of you can go, _except_ for him.” He motioned to Aron and immediately, Jorel raised a defensive arm across his chest before anyone even knew what or why.

“You _just_ said-” Jorel was about to snap without letting Aron or anyone else say anything, but the detective cut him off.

“He skipped bail and destroyed government property - the ankle monitor. We’ll have to address that separately to all of this other stuff.” He explained, simultaneously motioning for the two cops in the hallway to detain Aron as if he’d actually put up a fight. Rolling his eyes, he looked annoyed but he saw this coming, so he’d go along willingly and hopefully it worked out. 

“You - you can’t! _Please.”_ Jorel whimpered when they came to put Aron in handcuffs, at the point of tears, stepping between his friend and the cops like he could do anything to stop them.

“Relly, don’t be dumb.” Aron warily told him, not reacting to the cold metal sliding around his wrists as he gave his brother a look that he hoped conveyed the point of ‘I’ll be fine, just don’t make trouble for yourself - _again’._

“They won’t give me a lotta time. All I did was skip bail and break some shit. I’ll be okay.” 

The Undead, excluding Jorel, they got that and knew they wouldn’t be able to do anything here, so though unhappy about this, they stood aside and watched the police do their job, put Aron in chains and start walking him down the hall.

“Give Dylan a kiss from me.” He smiled as they took him past his companions, hoping to depart on a lighter note so they wouldn’t feel so gloomy and doomy about him still getting arrested when they were not, but he and everyone else should have expected that Jorel couldn’t take seperation again. 

He was horrified when he found out he’d be spending even _more_ time apart from his ride-or-die, and in his eyes, it was not only unimaginable, but an impossible fate. He had to do something, so he opted to throw himself at the cop who had his hand around Aron’s upper arm, and just relentlessly start punching the shit outta the guy. He tackled him to the floor and beat him in a rapid succession of hits no one saw coming. 

_“Jorel-!”_ Aron screamed at him but the pitch of his voice was no good, Jorel could not be gotten through to once his mind was made up. He was in a fit of beating his fists across the man’s face and he wasn’t stopping until he was stopped. 

“Heel! Heel right the fuck now!” 

Johnny didn’t step in and he held Danny back from doing it too, tiredly watching the detective and the other police lunge to drag Jorel off their colleague. Danny was still new to this ish, he didn’t understand that it was Jorel’s full intention to get arrested so he wouldn’t have to be apart from Aron. They may as well stand aside and let him do what he wanted. 

He would never forgive them if they did anything to get in the way of his _master plan._

“That was pretty fuckin’ dumb, kid.” The detective remarked upon throwing Jorel into a wall and pinning him to it, twisting his arm behind his back. But Jorel certainly didn’t find it dumb or stupid; he was grinning widely, knowing he’d get _at least_ a month or two for aggravated assault of an officer. _Perfect._

“C’mon, guys.” Exhaling, Matt jerked his head over his shoulder in gesture to the door, done with all of this shit and ready to go home to fucking _sleep._ He saw the others were ready for it too, they dragged their feet as they followed him, Danny being mostly confused over what he’d just witnessed. Was - was this normal? He wanted to ask questions and tried to - many times, each one to be met with the same response of,

“Jorel’s where he wants to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so pumped to finish this one off, I already have a whole thing planned for what these guys will be doing next. I'm kinda into this AU where Aron isn't a total piece of shit.


	16. the prison tyrant

It was quite possible that Jeff never wanted them to ever come back - under _any_ circumstances whatsoever. But he did so much for them, put himself out there to the extent that only a very rare person would. So they wanted to say ‘thank you’, _at least._ It was common decency.

Aron and Jorel couldn’t make it on account of being in jail, awaiting a court hearing that would determine how long they’d be locked up together, and knowing Jorel, he had his fingers crossed for eternity. 

But regardless of being two men short, they still decided to swing by Shady’s, now with Dylan in tow. The hospital kept him for a couple of nights to be safe and concluded that rest and medicine would see him to complete recovery - _if_ he didn’t do anything dumb. Which was off to a _great_ start, since he shouldn’t be outta bed but he insisted that he needed fresh air. For the last week, all the guys had been staying at Johnny’s and Jorel’s, as Johnny suggested it, so he’d had nothing but time to keep an eye on them all, and he reasoned Dylan was well enough to step out of the house. 

Not like he could be stopped.

Even Danny agreed to stay over for one night, as he originally said, but he made no effort to leave the next day, or the one after that, or that, and certainly, the Undead did not mind. They wanted him there, especially since Lorene Drive didn’t seem too concerned for him when they were told of what happened. The Undead suspected that they somehow blamed Danny for their guitarist’s death, which was _idiotic,_ but whatever.

It was twice the reason to love the blond they’d come to love even more unconditionally, make sure that if there was anything he needed - _anything at all_ \- they were eternally in his debt. Whether he liked it or not, he was one of them now and that would never change. And by how at ease he was around them, he seemed to like it. 

For instance, while the rest slept, Danny spent the night watching some indie movie with Dylan, chatting about its ending long into the early hours.

They were friends now, Dylan loved the guy now, thank whatever happened between them at the crack den but the Undead were happy for it, whether or not they had the details.

“I hope he’s home.” Matt thought aloud as they let themselves into Jeff’s place through the backdoor, already fully aware he would never answer the front one if he saw them. 

“You know Jeff doesn’t leave his shop, don’t you?” Johnny reminded him, confused as to how the drummer could have forgotten. Their teensy little emo lunatic was practically rooted to his house, thats walls were undoubtedly lined with tinfoil to go with the hidden weapons stash beneath the floor. 

Charlie insisted on holding Danny’s hand - who was the new love of his life. And Dylan had his unbroken arm through the blond’s for the entire walk here, so it was safe to assume that he was their favourite person in the world, otherwise, he might be allowed to have one of his limbs free. But he didn’t mind them clinging to him, it made him feel like his company was desired. 

And speaking of company being desired and not, they were prepared to be shot at when they stepped into the breakroom that always seemed to be dark, glass still sprayed out across the tiled floor from where they broke the window to get in the first time. Surprisingly, there was no cock of a shotgun or bang before an explosion of pain, so they wagered that instead of going on the immediate assault, Jeff might be hiding. 

Because there was _no way_ he didn’t already know they were here. 

So imagine their surprise when they came into Jeff’s gloomy office and found him slumped over his desk, arms folded beneath his head, _fast asleep._

“... Oh my fucking God, he’s so _cute.”_ Dylan breathed in shock and wonder, unable to take his wide eyes off of the never-before-seen-sight that was a sleeping Jeffrey Phillips, for once not glaring, narrowing his cynical eyes or maliciously chewing his lip ring. And Dylan wasn’t wrong, Jeff was rather cute when he slept, _adorable_ even, with his features lax and void of tension, black feathery bangs splayed out in a way that meant his whole face could be seen from beneath them. 

Despite being friends for years, they’d never seen Jeff sleep and had begun to believe that he simply _didn't._ Yet herein lay the evidence against, quite literally. 

Smiling softly, Danny tipped his head as he looked at Jeff, downloading the sweet image into his brain as he might never see it again.

“Should we let him sleep and come back another time?” The blond suggested, his arms yet to be released from the grasp of the band babies. The floor of Jeff's office was still destroyed, boards torn up and stacked against the wall, his desk the only thing left on a bit of planking, so they couldn't enter the room but were left lingering by the doorway.

“No. We can wait for him to wake up.” Johnny said, carefully stepping into the dug-out floor with his good leg, the other still fucking painful, much to Danny's guilt. He _swore_ he didn't mean to kick the guy so hard that over a week later, he was continuing to bear the ramifications. 

Cautiously trying to avoid tripping over the exposed beams, Johnny limped his way to Jeff's desk, taking care not to make a noise loud enough to wake him. He noticed there was a timer placed next to Jeff, set to ring in just twenty minutes when the original time measured was a mere hour. Did he honestly think he needed no more rest than that?

If he did then Johnny disagreed. He switched the timer off and slid his arm between Jeff and the desk, tenderly plucking the emo out of his seat. To add to what a surprising morning this was already, Jeff didn't wake up, only stirred and uttered a low, sleepy snuffle that wouldn't translate in any language. He curled against Johnny's chest, muttering something about the FBI having rigged the lines or some of the usual shit he devoutly believed.

The first thing Johnny took into count about their ex-bandie was that he _reeked_ of gasoline and engine grime, and there was no way to put it lightly, the stench was eye-watering. On top of that, oil stains or dirty grease or both coated their Jeffrey, most prominent on his hands and beneath his fingernails, black streaks of it running the length of his arms thickly enough to cover his tattoos. 

They didn’t have to wonder about the mess, the cause was fairly evident as on top of all the sketchy shit Jeff did, his primary occupation was that of a mechanic’s - be it a chop-shop running illegal weapons dealer mechanic. But a mechanic, nonetheless, and he appeared to have been working on a car or bike before taking a break for a power nap. Little did he know, his plan would be interrupted by Johnny carrying him out of his office and to the more comfortable resting place that was the couch in the breakroom. 

“No, wait! Johnny, don’t put him down yet.” Matt interrupted right as Johnny was going to lay Jeff onto the cushions, and he paused, regarding their drummer in question as the man searched his pockets for his phone. When he found it, he raised it to take a picture, smiling wide at the shutter snap that eternalised the image of Johnny Three Tears carrying Shady Jeff against his shoulder like a sleeping toddler. 

“This shit’s goin’ online.” Matt was grinning to himself, rapidly typing hashtags as he got straight to posting it. Dylan leaned over to check it out, unable to stop himself from smiling.

“Yo, send that to me. Homie’s puttin’ it in a frame.” 

“Anyone else thinking _next album cover?”_ Charlie joined in, smirking mischievously. After everything these last two weeks, all the death and fear and violence, it was good to see him being his naughty boyish self again. 

“Jeff’s gonna kill us, guys.” Johnny reminded them, arranging the man in question comfortably onto the couch. Once it was done, he bent over Jeff to carefully untie the bandana from around his neck. It would be lovely if they could avoid him getting strangled to death, were the knot to twist as he tossed in his sleep. It was the same with Charlie, it always came down to them reminding the fool not to sleep in his bandana. 

“You serious? Little Jeffy can't take _me!”_ To prove his point, Charlie threw his arms up and flexed his biceps, showing off his unremarkable muscles. 

“Don't lie to yourself, homes.” Dylan poked Charlie in the temple with his index, bumping his head to one side. “I've seen you lose an arm-wrestling match to _Aron._ And Aron weighs like - _eighty pounds.”_

_“You_ try beating Aron when his _boyfriend_ is looming over your shoulder. I _guarantee_ you won't dare.” The maniac attempted to defend himself and his lost battle of days past, and he expected his homeboy to get it, but of course, Dylan chose the path that meant he could be a dick. 

“Shit, man, if _that's_ what you gotta tell yourself...” 

Narrowing his eyes, Charlie considered jumping Dylan to prove that he could fuck up any bitch, big _or_ small, but the Hispanic’s arm in a sling and busted ribs kept him safe. For now… but _by God,_ when he’d healed up…

“Stop fightin’. You’ll wake Jeff.” Danny told them, a smile upon his lips but it couldn’t be missed; his voice was stern. He was warning them. And Matt was in awe of the way Danny’s mom-voice immediately had their young ‘uns fall to attention. They listened to him on just the first go…. _Goddammit,_ they needed this dude to be a permanent fixture in their lives. 

“I thought we could fix Jeff’s floor.” Johnny returned to the office, placing his hands on his hips as he examined the damage. Given the time crunch they were on before, there was no time to delicately remove the floorboards so the claw of Jeff’s crowbar had torn up the wood. They may be able to put it back to some semblance of what it was.

So as Jeff slept, they got to work with Dylan watching from the sidelines, not complaining about getting to sit this one out. Work sucked anyways, so _really,_ he was onto something when he _chose_ to get his arm broken.

He mostly just walked around idly, looking at things while his friends put the floor back. And when that was mostly done, Jeff was already coming around, rubbing his eyes on the backs of his hands. There was a clock inside of him, more powerful than any timer, and it would never allow him to get more than his routine two hour fix of sleep.

“Get the fuck out of my house.” Jeff grumbled, searching for his shotgun but his hand only came upon the empty space of the couch. Frowning, he sat and threw his legs over the side, at a loss as to why these fucking people came back already. 

“You _really_ wanna fix this by yourself?” Matt asked, simultaneously hefting a floorboard back and watching it fall heavily to its original place. It was hard work, having to move the solid wooden furniture around perhaps the worst of it. 

And Jeff knew that, hence why he hadn't done it himself yet. He was also in no hurry to break his back so with an eye-narrow, he pushed off the couch, coming to briefly survey them at the doorway. 

“Don’t touch anything else. Hurry up. Then get the fuck out and never come back.” Then with such heartfelt instructions, Jeff left them in favour of returning to the garage, where his next job sat on bricks, ready to get the angle grinder on so he could get to the valuable parts. 

“He’s such a jewel.” Johnny rolled his eyes. It's not like he was dumb enough to expect actual _gratitude_ from Jeffrey but _come on…_

Dylan had always been interested with cars and anything to do with cars, he was curious to see what Jeff was working on when tailing him to the garage. Surprisingly, he wasn't told to fuck off. 

There was a door in the break room that lead into the garage, they went through it and inside was the car Jeff was about to strip for parts, covered by a tarp that left only its shape to be seen.

“... One of my employees found this beautiful piece at the scrap yard.” Jeff explained, stopping by the car and laying his hand on her side. God knows why he was sharing information. “... Apparently, it got dragged up from the sea as part of some investigation but the cops had no use for it... So it's mine now.” Turning to the vehicle, he patted it, right on the spot Dylan stared at, eyes wide. Hang on, he’d know those beautious curves anywhere…

All but shoving Jeff aside, the Hispanic tore the tarp off and threw himself over the hood of his beaten Cadillac, zero regard for his broken ribs and arm as he hugged her tightly, utterly overjoyed.

“Mi bebé!” Repeatedly, he kissed her in as many spots as he could. The Caddy was dented and rusty, riddled with bullet holes and lacking the tyres but it was still his _bebé._

Picking himself up, dusting himself off, Jeff rolled his eyes.

“For _fuck’s_ sake, does this mean I need to give it back?”

  
  


* * *

“- Get you where you wanna go if you know what I mean-”

“-Got a ride that’s cooler than a limousine!” 

“Can ya handle the curves? Can you run all the lines?” 

“If you can, baby boy, then we can go all night!” 

Singing Rihanna’s ‘Shut up and Drive’, Charlie danced side-to-side in the passenger seat while Dylan was behind the wheel, the heel of his hand resting on it. But instead of steering, he was more focused on dishing out every other line of the duet and making it harder for Johnny, Danny and Matt to push his wrecked Caddy up the hill outside of Jeff’s place. This hill had never been so steep before, they swore. But it would be harder if Jeff hadn’t agreed to put the tyres back.

Their young ones dancing kept shifting the weight around in the car, it made it significantly more difficult to roll this fucking thing all the way home. It’d be sitting in the driveway for a good while, Johnny could already tell, and not even Dylan’s driveway. No, he’d dump this pile of garbage at Johnny’s and Jorel’s and let it sit there until they got it fixed for him. Now, Jeff was well and capable of fixing the Cadillac, seeing as how he was a fucking _mechanic,_ but he wouldn’t be doing them any favours for the next fifty years. 

Apparently, the engine was gone when the car was found but they all knew Jeff stole it. Though for his efforts, they let him keep it. It was the least they could do. Even if it meant they needed to walk this fucking thing down the street with Johnny, Danny, and Matt breaking their backs with their hands on the trunk, pushing it along. Dylan was injured, he shouldn’t even be out of bed so steering was about all he could do but _come on,_ did Charlie really need to be riding shotgun? Well, he was shot recently but it didn’t maim him the way he claimed it did. 

Whatever, he and Dylan could sing and dance all they wanted because clearly, they weren’t worried about causing hardship for their friends.

_“Geez,_ I hope Aron and Jorel are okay…” Danny mused out of nowhere, his voice somehow steady even as beads of sweat rolled down his brow and he breathed heavily. His hands were flat on the back of the Caddy, pushing with all the strength in him towards the promise that this would get easier once they were over this goddamn hill.

“They are. Those two are like My Little Pony or some shit.” Johnny grunted past his set teeth, switching his position around to push with the car against his back. Bad idea, he knew, but it was easier on his busted knee.

“Yeah,” Matt joined in, sweat-soaked curls plastered to his scalp in one of the first recorded incidents where his hair didn’t stand a foot above his head. “As long as they’ve got each other, they’re good.”

Pursing his lips, Danny nodded, having already gotten that mental image. But then instead of giving a third nod, he ended up shaking his head in disbelief, letting it drop beneath the line of his tense arms.

“I _still_ can’t believe Jorel got himself _arrested_ because he can’t part from Aron.” 

“He’s, uh… got abandonment issues… or attachment issues… or both.” They should probably get Jorel into therapy at some point, if not for this than all the other things that were wrong with him. But that would be rather hypocritical, seeing as how they should all be medicated and institutionalised ASAP.

“Can you imagine?” The drummer smirked, blowing a damp curl from his face. “Locked up 24/7, bars, cages, cramped rooms, zero privacy, _and_ constant one-on-one with Aron, it’s like… Jorel’s dream come true, right there.” 

“Haha, I feel kinda bad for Aron.” Danny laughed a little but he wasn’t joking. Out of those two codependent fools, Aron might be the one who could survive on his own for a spell while Jorel got Vietnam PTSD from any time at all spent apart. 

_“Don’t.”_ Johnny sternly told Danny. “He did it to himself. He’s the one who chose to give Jorel half of his Snickers back in kindergarten. No one made him do it.” 

“In his defense, I don’t think he knew what he was getting into.” The blond smiled, the good-natured way of the history lesson in Jaronism almost making it possible for him to ignore how bad his shoulders were burning. Shit, this car was heavy. It felt like it was hardly rolling any.

_“Trust me,_ he did.” The bigger man insisted. “I warned him not to feed the rabid kid who kept flipping us off and growling like a fucking demon. Aron didn’t listen and he’s had an obsessed boyfriend ever since.”

“Wow… Jorel’s really that loyal after an act of kindness as simple as sharing a candy bar?” 

“... Nah, I think he just thought Aron could get him more sweets. His mom didn’t really believe in giving her kids sugar.” Johnny went on, leaning harder against the car, every limb trembling from the immense amount of effort this took. Jesus, was the damn thing even moving? 

“Ever since, Jorel kinda just followed Aron around like a lost puppy or something. I don’t think he even knows how to be alone anymore.” Matt continued as Johnny was too distracted by frowning at the floor and trying to figure out whether or not they were actually making any progress.

“I guess that’s why Aron calls him J-Dog, isn’t it?” Danny suggested, because if it was, then it really made a lotta sense. Having someone follow you around like the monster from ‘It Follows’ must’ve been rather challenging before it became normal. 

“Yeah…” Matt admitted, a smile tweaking his lips. Flat on the car, his palms were sweaty and keeping a grip was beginning to get trickier and trickier. 

“Aron gave me a chicken nugget last week, I wonder if it means I’m now excused to follow him for eternity like the plague?” It was a joke. Danny meant it as a joke but the shocked expressions he was dealt by both of the men on either side of him let him know it was a serious matter. 

_“Wait._ Aron _gave_ you a chicken nugget? As in _willingly?_ He _shared_ his food with you?” Johnny gaped. He couldn't believe it. The impact of the information hit harder than Danny kicking his knee in.

_“Dude,_ he _never_ does that.” Matt told their blondie, his clear blue eyes alight as those of a man's witnessing a true miracle. 

“I stole a fry from him once and he lowkey punched me in the face.”

Neither Matt nor Johnny wasn't entirely sure that Danny could fully grasp the nature of the wonder he experienced. If there was one thing they _all_ knew not to do, it was to fuck with Aron's food, a law even Charlie and Dylan respected. Back at Jorel's and Johnny's place, they had a cupboard reserved for only the stuff they made sure was constantly in-stock for Aron; chips, candy, chocolate, cookies, and other such unhealthy shit. If he didn't have food available or he got hungry, his aggression was feared citywide, so the fact that he shared his chicken nuggets with Danny was _extremely_ uncharacteristic. 

“This might be the second recorded incident in history where he willingly offers his tucca to someone.” Matt went on. “Be proud, mate. You're literally one of two people in existence.”

As their drummer related this knowledge, Danny was utterly baffled, turning his head from Johnny to Matt and back to Johnny. 

“But _why the hell_ is he sharing with _me?”_

Thoughtfully, Johnny tipped his head, chewing on his lip as his mind churned an answer. It was hard to say, honestly, Aron's behaviour with food was largely undocumented and no understood.

“My best guess is that he's tryna befriend you.”

“With a _chicken nugget?”_

“Bro, _to Aro,_ it's not just a chicken nugget. He basically offered you a piece of his very soul.” Matt explained and he wished he was exaggerating, but he wasn't. Chicken nuggets and food in general were life to some. 

“Just pray that Jorel never finds out. He might kill you if he feels his relationship with Aron is threatened.” 

“... It was a fucking _chicken nugget._ Not a marriage proposal.”

“A chicken nugget _of_ _friendship.”_ The drummer pressed, certain that blondie would appreciate the magnitude of the gesture if they nudged it along enough. 

“Yo, guys, hold up!” Dylan hollered from the front, interrupting the _muy importante_ chicken nugget conversation. For a moment, they all stopped pushing the Cadillac up the hill, groaning as they straightened out the kinks in their aching spines. Jesus H. _Christ_ this thing fucking weighed. It's like they'd made no leeway for the past half an hour. 

“What, Dylan?” Johnny asked breathlessly, wiping a stream of sweat off his brow, onto the butterflies inked to the back of his hand. His breathing was heavy and hot, coming out in bursts. It was difficult to believe it was winter as perspiration soaked his clothes to his back, likewise for Danny and Matt.

“Just realised something…” Casually, Dylan looked around the car and they all heard the jaw-dropping telltale sound of him pulling the handbrake. 

“I forgot it's in gear. Should be easier to move now.” 

Danny, Johnny, and Matt collectively couldn't _fucking believe it._ No wonder this hell car was so difficult to push! If the handbrake was on for all this time then - 

“You guys are buying me lunch for this.” Danny sighed and got back to work pushing the Caddy. What a surprise, it rolled along much easier now.

“Sure. How about some chicken nuggets?” Matt teased, a mischievous glimmer in his eye.

“I only accept those from Aron, sorry.” 

“Whelp,” The drummer pushed harder against the Cadillac, really straining his muscles for every step further.

“Hope you're down to wait ‘cause you won't be seein’ Aron for a bit.” 

* * *

Deeply, from the very pit of his lungs, Aron exhaled slowly. Three months. Three _fucking_ months - for _skipping bail._ The system was broken! This was hardly an offence worthy of a penalty but he supposed he should be grateful he and Jorel at least were sentenced to carry out their punishment at the same correctional facility. His presence was a comfort, even if Aron thought he was a complete fucking idiot for ever getting himself arrested. 

A _sweet_ complete fucking idiot, but a complete fucking idiot, nonetheless. 

Suppose Aron could then glean further comfort from the delightful information of how the good detective didn't take half a week to track that scumbag Conrad down. It was quite likely he might be doing time in this very prison and haha, Aron couldn't _wait._

Delicious times to come. It made him shiver from anticipation. It was a thought that made him smile.

“You look too happy to be a dude who's doin’ time.” Jorel remarked, sitting himself down on the bleacher Aron was perched on the edge of. They were out in the yard, Aron had been watching inmates partaking in various kinds of sports designed to pass the time of God knows how many years combined they would be spending here. 

“Well what do you mean, Rel?” Aron unsuspectingly asked, deliberately playing coy as he turned to Jorel, wearing the least innocent smile of all time.

Jorel was quite unsettled by that evil smirk but he wagered it was to do with them possibly sharing a wing alongside Conrad in the near future. Fucker couldn't run then. 

“Nothing.” He dropped it, instead opting to remove his dull grey sweatshirt as he did oh-so-often. Despite having a matching shirt of his own stowed away somewhere, Aron still had his look to maintain even behind bars. So he’d removed his orange jumpsuit halfway and tied it up at the waist with the arms, a white vest the only thing covering his torso. 

Aron's flesh were riddled with goosebumps, he was fucking freezing to death before Jorel's very eyes yet he refused to get dressed for the weather. So it was Jorel's duty to shield his friend from the cold with his own sweatshirt, laying it over his trembling shoulders. Aron didn't say anything but he did wrap his shivering, bluing hand around the edge of the open front, drawing it closed. 

“So whaddya wanna do when we get out?” Jorel wondered. One could say it was too early to plan that, seeing as how they were a week into their sentence, but it was good to look forward to things.

Thoughtfully, Aron tipped his face towards the sky, nibbling on his lip as he considered it. 

“Wanna go see a movie?” He suggested. Jorel shrugged.

“As long as it's a movie with Scarlet Johanson in it.”

_“Why?_ You emotionally cheating on me?” Smirking, Aron teased, a mocking glimmer in his eye as he sideyed Jorel. 

_“Never.”_ With a grin, Jorel leaned over to plant a kiss on his cheek. At this point, he wasn't so sure that they were even joking anymore but that thought gave way to an avenue of existential crises and life re-evalutation so best not explore it or ever think about it ever again. 

“Your Majesty!”

Jorel rolled his eyes when their dumbass fanboys came running up to them again. What were the odds that those idiots happened to get sentenced to the same prison? And running with a Colombian drug cartel meant they weren't getting out any time soon.

But Aron certainly wasn't one for complaining here. His abuse of power reigned fierce even behind bars. Though it was other that or Jorel had to be his friend’s personal vending machine, so he also had no room to object.

“Did you get what I asked for?” Aron tipped his nose up at Lucas and Camilo, refusing to have his face on the same level. Not that he had to worry about that, they knelt before him on the lower bleacher, staring up with adoring eyes. Tragically, they were all too happy to be his slaves.

_“Yes,_ Your Highness. _Of course.”_ At arm’s length, Camilo extended the bag of pretzels Aron had them fetch him from commissary. And like the ungrateful prick he had a tendency to be, Aron didn't thank them or even make visual contact; he snatched the bag and proceeded to open it over an elegantly crossed leg. 

“Now I want you to go run laps around the court. Don't stop until the bell rings.” He waved his hand dismissively and Lucas and Camilo were already scampering off to do as commanded, no matter how pointless their task was. They didn't care, however, they were just happy to do as The Producer told them. 

“You're a dick, Aron.” Jorel commented, watching the Colombians racing around the court for Aron’s mild entertainment. And he wasn’t even looking.

“You love me for it.” Jorel’s BFF murmured past a mouthful of pretzels, and unfortunately, he wasn't wrong. Being a dick was his finest quality and Jorel didn't know what he’d be if that wasn't the case.

Munching away, Aron offered the mouth of the bag in Jorel’s direction. 

“You wanna pretzel?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone else writing a marriage proposal for that chick from the Empire music video? Well get the fuck in line, I'm going first.


End file.
